What You Will of Me
by daughterofelros
Summary: Snow White and the Huntsman SWATH . Snow White/Huntsman He's not going to attend her coronation. He plans to move on. Yet he's powerless to deny her.
1. What You Will of Me

He watched her coronation from the back of the hall. He had considered not even attending, had planted himself resolutely in on the edge of the narrow bed in the tiny chamber they had given him, and settled in to sharpen his knives. Again. He had is pride. It was foolish, and he knew it. He couldn't pull himself away from her. God forgive him, she had become the bright point of the sun that his world revolved around. She had lain there cold on the stone, several hours dead and he had still been moved to press his lips to her sweet, innocent ones and leave her cheeks wet with his tears. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. He would die for her, had willingly risked his life half a hundred times for her in the past weeks, and would do so again. And he would go to his grave with the secret that it was his kiss that had woken her from the Queen's deathly spell.

He had loved two women in his life. The first he had lost to a cruel death, and the other he was lost to him before he ever had a hope of having her

She deserved to be happy, to live, and love, and choose for herself someone befitting her station. Someone noble, and good, who would protect her and support her and help her to lead her kingdom. Someone like William, who had known her since childhood, and carried her in his heart for many years. He couldn't begrudge them their inevitable happiness, but neither could he claim that it didn't pain him like an arrow pierced through his own heart.

The horns were sounding joyously somewhere below him. She would be walking in to the Great Hall at any moment now, to sit on the throne her father had ruled from and be crowned with the crown her mother had worn. With a muttered curse, he stood, crossed to the washbasin across the room in half a stride, and began scrubbing his face with the cloth. A halfhearted struggle with the comb, and he judged himself presentable enough.

He stood in the back, trying not to call attention to himself. He saw her looking out over the crowd, scanning the faces, and his damnable pride got the better of him. He stepped to the edge of the crowd, and then beyond. She saw him- he watched her face change when she met his gaze and held it, a smile curving across her lips. There was no doubt that her smile was intended for him, and even as his heart leapt, he felt it clench as well. This was a torture beyond what he thought he could endure.

A grand feast followed the coronation, but he didn't stay long- only enough time to eat some food and drink some ale before returning to his chamber. Once there he packed his few possessions methodically, making sure that everything was in order. He would leave, he had decided. Within the next day or two. The princess- the _Queen_ had no more need of him, and he had no need to sit around a castle nursing a wounded heart when the local taverns had ale and spirits enough for even a man so thirsty as himself.

Time passed, but he found he had nothing to do. His weapons were all clean and honed to a razor's edge, he had nothing to read, and no desire to sleep. Eventually he just reclined on the bed fully clothed, crossed his arms behind his head and got lost in his own memories. The castle grew quiet around him as the celebrations drew to a close and guests either scattered back to their homes or retired to their own chambers. His candle burned low in its silver holder, but he hardly noticed. A knock on the door finally roused him from his reverie.

He pulled the door open, expecting to see a servant or perhaps a messenger. He was absolutely not expecting to see _her_.

"Your Majesty." He breathed. She smiled shyly.

"May I come in?" she asked. He pulled the door open wider in response. "Thank you" she breathed as she brushed past him. Her skirt was wide enough that it filled nearly all the empty space in the room.

"May I ask what brings you here, Your Highness?"

"I've hardly seen you since the battle."

"It's been a busy couple of days."

"So it has." She paused for a moment. "It's the nights that are more concerning to me, however."

"Your Majesty?" He asked, wary of her meaning. She took a deep breath.

"Since I was ten years old, every night has been a nightmare. Shivering in the cold, never warm enough even when I did manage to get a fire going, and never knowing when the Queen's brother would come crawling through the shadows to the door of my prison to watch me sleep. When I escaped, there was a terrifying night spent hallucinating in the forest, and the night I woke surrounded by smoke and flames when the Queen's men burned the lake village. The only nights that I've felt safe at all in the last ten years were the nights you lay nearby." She lapsed into silence, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. It had a dangerous effect on him. He was half-torn between folding her into his arms and rocking her like the innocent child she was, and crushing his lips to hers to kiss all her doubts and fears away. Neither was his place. She took a deep breath. " I wondered if, perhaps, I could spend the night here. With you."

"I'm not certain that would be a good idea," he said roughly, "Given the circumstances."

"Circumstances?" A light flared in her eyes, reminding him that despite her innocence, she was neither fragile nor naïve. "What are the circumstances of which you speak?"

"My Lady, you are the Queen of our realm. You have a great many expectations upon you. I… I am no one. A lowly huntsman." His voice deepened with self-disgust. "A _drunkard_, who still mourns his murdered wife. It would not seem…appropriate for us to pass the night together."

"Sara." She whispered. He stilled.

"What did you say?" he breathed.

"Your wife. Her name was Sara."

"How did you know that? I never spoke her name."

"You said I remind you of her."

_Impossible._

"And then you kissed me. I wiped your tears from my cheeks when I awoke."

_She knew_.

" Don't you understand? The queen's curse could only be undone by a force she could not comprehend and could not defend against. True, unselfish love. True Love's kiss was the only thing that could break her curse." She raised a slender, trembling hand to cup his cheek. "Your kiss returned me from the land of the dead. It proved that you love me."

"Forgive me." He whispered. She smiled.

"Don't you see? It could not have worked if I did not love you as well."

His throat felt suddenly dry. She stepped toward him, so close that the stiff leather of his vest brushed the velvet bodice of her gown as with every breath she took. She looked up at him even as she drew him down to her. He was powerless against her. Her lips pressed against his then, warm and supple, and not at all like the last time he had felt them. That time they had been cool and unyielding and had set his heart to grieving. Now, they set his soul afire.

He wanted to take her in his arms, to crush her slender body to his, tilt her head back and ravish her. He wanted to kiss her until she was breathless, and then kiss her again slowly, thoroughly , until her green eyes went unfocused and she clung to him in desperation. But along with his damnable pride he also possessed some honor, and so he returned her kiss only briefly and then withdrew.

"We should not." He murmured. She looked at him with eyes as guileless as a child's, her gaze clouded with confusion.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Why do you not wish to kiss me, Huntsman? Is it that the memory of your wife is still too raw?"

She had thrown him a life raft to cling to, an excuse to hold between them, and one that was not without some shred of merit. But he would not lie to her, or hide behind false rationalizations. She deserved his honesty at least.

"My Queen," he said roughly, "I would worship you. I would gladly take you in my arms, and hold you safe, and honor every part of your body. I would devote myself to you and to your pleasure. And I would be your man completely, I would deny you nothing. But I fear that if I were ever to allow myself to do so, I might not stop. And I do not believe that such things are truly what you desire of me this night."

She shook her head at that. "Yet would you deny me a sound night's sleep with the man I trust to protect me by my side?" she asked archly.

She had him there.

"No, Milady. If you truly wish to pass the night here, I would not refuse you."

"Good." She said decidedly, with a hint of a smile. "Then would you help me with my gown?" She turned so he could access the elaborate network of laces that held the heavy fabric in place. He attempted to set aside his misgivings and reached to do as he was bid, loosening the laces enough that the gown would eventually slip down her slender frame and pool at her feet. His knuckles brushed against her sides with every pull, and in his hyperaware state, he could feel the heat that radiated from her body even through the thick velvet. With gentle hands, he pushed the gown off her shoulders, palms grazing the sharp bones through her shift.

She turned to face him, and was the one who was left breathless. The garment was undeniably modest-she was still covered from shoulder to ankle, and the fabric was not sheer by any means. The first time he had undressed Sara, on their wedding night, she had worn a shift so thin he could see her nipples through it. This garment was not designed in such a way as to be provocative. Nonetheless, he found himself aroused as he had been on his wedding night. Seeing her even like this was an intimacy which he would never have dreamed of being allowed. She reached for the metal hooks that fasten his vest. Beneath the it, the top three buttons of his shirt were left undone. She laid her fingers against his bare skin. He felt them burn like a brand.

"You are wise, Huntsman, to know that my wish tonight is only for a restful night's sleep. Yet know this also- there will be a time when I will hold you to everything that you have promised, and you need not fear stopping because I will not ask it of you."

He searched her eyes for a moment. She meant it, that much was plain. Although she has little notion of what it is she promised, she meant to have him some day. If he has as much honor as he thinks he does, he will be long gone by the time that day arrives.

"It is late." He said, shucking off his vest and carefully not responding to her remark. "We should sleep."

He steered her toward the bed, not bothering to undress further. Although he did not typically sleep in his breeches unless he was out hunting and tracking in the woods, it seemed prudent to leave them on tonight.

He was glad of that decision a few moments later, when she made it clear that she intended for them to share his bed. It was a tortuous pleasure to lay there with her in front of him, her back nestled against his chest, her body pressed to his from head to toe. He pulled the coverlet over them both and prayed that she did not shift too much during the night. His control had its limits. He blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness. Several minutes passed, and then she spoke.

"You plan on leaving, don't you?" she asked him softly. He waited a long moment before answering.

"Yes."

"I thought so. All of your belongings are packed."

"I don't need much, and I travel frequently. I am rarely _unpacked_," he said wryly.

"But you still mean to leave. Why is that?"

He sighed.

"What is there for me here, Princess? I have served my purpose. I returned you to your people, I have ridden at your side and fought to return you to your kingdom and your throne. What further need could you have of me? My usefulness to you seems at and end, and I have never been one for idle contentment. If I do not fill a purpose in one place, I move on to seek it in another."

"Would you stay?" she asked quietly. "If I had need of you? Now that I am Queen, I will require many people on my Council to advise me in the matters of my kingdom. There are all manner of loyal lords and political advisors. But there are precious few that I know and trust. Would you stay, and be a counselor to me? My loyal Huntsman?"

He hesitated uncomfortably. "If you will it of me, Milady." He felt her shake her head upon the pillow.

"I would have you will it of yourself."

"Then I do not know if I can promise it."

"That is fair, Huntsman" she said sleepily. "I will honor whatever decision you make."


	2. Unable to Refuse

He'd never been much of one for words. Oh, he could throw them out there sharp and quick when he wanted to, could make snarky remarks in a tavern brawl that needled his opponents and brought a grin to his own face. But words usually backfired for him. That same face had sported plenty of black eyes and split lips to prove it.

For that reason, he said nothing to Snow White about his decision to stay. He figured that the fact he was still more than two weeks after she'd asked him to consider it should count as answer enough.

He had barely seen her in those first few days. She was kept constantly busy meeting with advisors and hearing petitions from loyal subjects. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of her- their beautiful, beloved princess long feared dead, now risen from the grave, who had ridden into battle astride a white palfrey to destroy the Evil Queen. Throughout the day, even during meals, her frantic schedule prevented him from being near her. The Duke and William and some other councilor were always at her side, whisking her from one duty to the next.

Nearly every night, however, she turned up at his door. Sometimes she was still dressed in her courtly attire, a wardrobe that had appeared seemingly overnight as every seamstress and tailor in the land had poured out of the woodwork to offer gifts to the new queen in hopes of securing her favor and future patronage. More often than not, though, she appeared at the door in a shift and a thick woolen shawl, as though she had attempted to sleep the night in her own chambers and given up. Always, she appeared weary. Often, she came so late that he was already abed and her knock would rouse him from his slumber. He took to leaving the door un-bolted so that she could steal in during the deepest hours of the night and tuck herself into the bed with him, nestled close against him. He quickly came to appreciate the sea beside the castle for the frigid swims he took each morning and the long runs he made down the beach to quell his body's frustrations.

No matter how late is was when she came to his chambers, she always rose early in the mornings to return to her own before her servants came to wake her for the day. He rose as soon as she did and made his way to the beach for his morning constitutionals. It was an impossible schedule. He found _himself_ exhausted, and he was accustomed to short hours of sleep and grueling days. How she managed it was beyond him. He asked her about it one morning as he helped her to fasten herself into the gown she had worn the night before. She looked at him with pale lips and haunted eyes and said hollowly that if she tried to sleep in her chambers, she got no sleep at all.

He put it all together a few days later when he overheard two of the servants gossiping the corridor.

"…and she never sleeps in the bed! Every time I go in to light the fire in the mornings, the coverings are undisturbed, an' there she is, curled up in the chair with a wee blanket over her."

"And not surprising it is, an older voice said sternly, "Considering what it is that's happened there when she was a child. 'Tis a marvel she sleeps at all, if you ask me."

He froze in the corridor, floored by a sudden wash of realization. He knew she's seen her father's corpse, murdered and mutilated in his bed the night Ravenna and her army had taken the castle. She'd told him as much on the long trek through the dark forest. He'd never dreamed thought that they would that they would have put her in the same chambers. Yet it stood to reason- they were the Royal Compartments- Ravenna would have taken them as her own, using every effort to legitimize her rein, and they would have been restored to Snow White after Ravenna's death. They might not even have known what she had seen there a decade ago. It was no wonder that she was unable to rest there, sequestered in a room haunted by the ghosts of her murdered father and an evil usurper of the throne. It might even have been the very room her mother had sickened and died in. It seemed that everyone was so preoccupied with restoring the past she had never experienced that they had forgotten what horrors lay in the past she had actually lived.

Fuming, he wheeled about and set off down the corridor in the opposite direction he had intended. The council meeting he was supposed to be at with the more incidental of the Queen's Advisors could wait. They hardly paid him a passing glance as it was, and ignored his opinions even when he saw fit to give them. He had better things to do.

It was just past midday when he found what he was looking for. The room was in an older section of the palace, and so was not as polished as the rooms that had been added later. The she square-hewn beams that supported the floor above were visible in the ceiling, and the walls were stone rather than ornate wooden paneling. Yet it was spacious, with windows that let in tremendous amounts of light. There was a balcony too, that looked out over the sea and the curving coastline behind the castle. It might once have housed members of foreign royalty or a dowager queen during her son's reign. It was obvious though that it had not been used for many years. No furniture beyond a chair and a handsome bedframe even remained.

It took him nearly twenty minutes to track down a troupe of servants, but once he had, it had taken surprisingly little time to convince them that he carried the instructions of the Queen. They scampered away to do his bidding so quickly it seemed almost possible he had imagined their presence at all.

Eight hours later, the place was almost unrecognizable. Furniture, rugs, and various knickknacks had been brought from various other rooms. A featherbed had been commandeered from Lord-knew-where and installed on the bedframe. The room had been swept and scrubbed until it practically gleamed, the years of dust and cobwebs banished by a handful of capable servants. He had supervised much of the process, even the parts that left him feeling undeniably foolish, like picking out draperies and bedcoverings from a selection that one of the maids brought him. Still, the result was something quite satisfactory.

That night he stayed awake in his quarters, waiting for her to arrive. The bells had already chimed midnight by the time he heard the familiar quiet knock on his door.

"I want to show you something." He said a tad abruptly before she had even closed the door behind her. She looked startled. "Follow me," he instructed and grabbed the candle. She never once questioned where they were going as he lead her down corridors and up staircases. He marveled at the trust she placed in him. Anyone else could easily have been leading her into danger. Then again, he doubted she would follow anyone else without question.

"You told me once that you'd seen your father when the Qu- when Ravenna was…finished with him." He said as they climbed a wide set of winding stairs. The candle light bounced wildly off the walls and the planes of her face. He caught her flinch and mentally cursed himself for the abruptness of his words. She nodded mutely. They gained the top of the staircase before he spoke again. "Your chambers. They are the same ones that he had, aren't they. That's why you can't sleep there. Why you never even try to sleep in that bed." It was a statement, not a question. She came to a standstill.

"How did you know?"

How did he tell her that he had pieced it together from her skittish behavior, the gossip of servants and his own peculiar instincts?

"It made sense." He said briefly. "I thought perhaps you might desire an alternative." He put his hand on the handle of the door before them and swung it open. He'd instructed that the fire be left going, so there was a little light. He touched the wick of his candle to a few of the candles in their mirrored holders, and light bloomed throughout the room. She ventured as far as the doorway, and her mouth fell open in shock.

"This is beautiful." She breathed, stepping over the threshold to explore the room. Her fingers trailed over the rough wood of the mantelpiece and the smooth coverlet of the bed in turn, and he felt himself beginning to grin. "_You_ did this?" she asked. He shrugged modestly. Just then, she noticed the wide doors to the little balcony, and with a gasp of delight that brought a full-blown smile to his face, she darted across the floor and threw them open. The sound of the crashing surf floated up from below. He followed at a more sedate pace and leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed casually across his chest, enjoying the sight of her so rapturously delighted. She leaned out over the stone rail to catch a glimpse of the white waves breaking beneath them. Then she whirled around and kissed him full on the mouth. He reeled back, pleased, and startled, and uncertain what to do with his hands.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, laughing joyously "Thank you! It's perfect." Her joy was infections, and he found himself chuckling along with her. She turned back out to gaze at the moonlight over the black sea. A moment passed, and something crept over her. He watched her shoulders tense and felt his smile fade.

"What is it, Milady?" he asked warily. She glanced back at him, and he saw that her eyes had gone hesitant and uncertain.

"Does this mean… Have you grown tired of my coming to you, Huntsman? Is this your kind way of refusing me?"

"No." He said, surprising himself with his vehemence. "No," he repeated more softly, crossing to her. He hesitated, then slid one arm tentatively around her waist, holding her against him and tucking her head beneath his chin. "Even if it damned me to a thousand hells," he vowed solemnly, "I could never refuse you." He felt the tension ease out of her, and she slid her hand to rest atop his forearm. And then, because he was probably damned anyway, he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head and tightened his hold around her.

They stood for several minutes like that, looking out at the night sea in silence. Snow White finally spoke, a murmur that that didn't disrupt the quiet so much as blend with it.

"Stay with me here tonight, Huntsman?" she asked. There really was no other answer he could give.

"Aye." He murmured back gently. For what he'd said before was true. He could not refuse her. And if he had come to realize that neither did he want to, well, that was his secret.


	3. Like a Moth to a Flame

"You can't be _serious_." William's incredulity was matched only by his derision. "Your Highness, the man is nothing more than a common peasant! He has no appreciable knowledge or skills related to governing, his diplomacy is akin to that of a badger, and he had no advantageous political connections. You don't even know if he can read or write! Why, for the love of all that is holy, would you want to make him a member of your Privy Council and name him among your most influential advisors?"

Snow White sat properly in the grand hard-backed chair that was her exclusive seat in the council chambers and waited for William to pause in his pacing and ranting. When he finally did so, she leveled her gaze at him and responded quite simply,

"Because I trust him."

"_Trust him_?" William echoed. "Forgive me, Your Highness, because I know that you feel you owe him a debt for protecting you in the forest, but I would remind you that he was initially sent into the forest to _kill_ you. I fear that putting your trust in him would not be a wise course of action."

"He didn't though."

"What?" William shook his head.

"He didn't kill me. You said yourself that he protected me. He saved my life, and I trust him." She explained patiently.

"No, he didn't kill you. " William said testily. "He did, however, break the noses of four men in tavern brawls in town, get arrested for vagrancy, and thrice had to be carried out taverns because he was too intoxicated to manage it on his own power, and all of that within the last few months alone. He did a kindness by staying his hand, but he _did_ agree to take your life for payment. The man is little better than a stray dog, hardly worth the dirt caked on his own boots. We owe him our gratitude for the service he has done us in bringing you through the forest alive, but let us not get too carried away, Your Highness. Grant him a tract of land, enough of a reward to build a cottage on it, and send him from the Palace. He is hardly suitable as an advisor to you. To be frank, I would be surprised if he even desires the title."

"He's also standing right here." The Huntsman's voice rang out from the doorway. There was a pregnant silence.

"My apologies, Huntsman." William said formally, inclining his head toward the other man by the slightest degree. "I did not mean offense." The second statement rang a bit false.

"None taken, Sir." Eric replied easily. "Much of what you say is true. I particularly liked the comment about the badger." William had the grace to look somewhat chagrined. "Although, in my own defense, three of the men in the taverns deserved to have their faces realigned, as they were taking liberties with the serving girls." Snow White suppressed a smile. It was rare to see William so thoroughly put in his place. Lord know how infrequently she had managed it when they were children.

"We were just discussing the idea of your… future here at court," William explained. "I was… informing Her Majesty of my observation that you were not a man typically drawn to courtly life, and that you might find a life of freedom in the country more desirable."

"I heard." Eric said dryly. "And though I appreciate your concern, I serve at the pleasure of the Queen." At this, he glanced to her and held her gaze, the faintest hint of a smile curving upon his lips. "And whatever she wills of me, it is my glad duty to obey. What would you have of me, My Queen?"

She favored him with a warm and pleasant smile.

"I would have you for my advisor, Huntsman. I would have you sit amongst the members of my Privy Council and give me your true and honest opinion when I ask it of you." He nodded, for he had been expecting this. Yet she continued on. "I have trusted you with my safety on many occasions, and you have always protected me. Therefore, I intend to task you with the creation and leadership of a Queen's Guard. You yourself have spoken of the wisdom of creating such an elite group on several occasions." He had, damn her, since it was only logical, but he had never intended that she should make him _lead_ it. Still, she wasn't done. "Finally, I intend to bestow upon you the title of Lord, so that your station reflects my esteem and the trust I place in you. Will you accept?"

Part of him wanted to turn and run the opposite direction. A Lord? What was she playing at? A lordly title was never something he had coveted. In truth, he had never had much use for the nobility. He was tempted to decline. And yet, as always, he was powerless to refuse her. He was aware of sinking to his knees, his body providing the answer that his mind feared to give, though he knew it was the only possible one.

"I do accept, Milady." He murmured as he bowed his head, taking some comfort in the horrified expression he had no doubt William was at that very moment trying to disguise.

"Very well. Then let my will be done. You may rise." She smiled kindly. He wondered what William saw in her eyes at that moment. Did he see only the modest happiness she chose to convey, or had the other man known her long enough to notice the barely-concealed affection in her gaze? If he did, would he guess the reason for it?

"William, I trust that you will assist in any necessary arrangements?" She asked. William's wooden nod was apparently enough to satisfy her. With that she stood and swept purposefully from the room, already late for the next in her constant parade of duties.

He and William were left to stand regarding each other stoically. Despite their differences, he was inclined to like William- he too was a man driven by a desire to protect his Queen and keep her best interests at heart, which Eric could readily admire. Despite William's distaste for the prospect of him remaining at court, there was some grudging respect between them. Yet he was under no illusion that things would go well for him if William ever discovered how, and more specifically _where_, he had been spending so many of his nights, Lordship or no.

"I don't dislike you." William said abruptly, breaking the silence had become more and more stifling.

"Aye, but you don't _like_ me either," Eric replied with a snort.

"I'm not sure I trust you." William countered. "That's different."

"Well you're honest about it." Eric observed. "It's a place to star, at least."

"I suppose it is." William agreed thoughtfully. He gestured toward the door. "After you, Lord Huntsman." Eric shuddered. 'Lord' was definitely going to take some getting used to.

The rest of the day was filled with official business. There were papers to be drawn up and signed regarding every aspect of the Queen's decree. Despite William's assumptions otherwise, he _did_ possess the ability to read and write, and even cipher a bit. Nonetheless, the process was long and unexciting, and the courtly language and flowing penmanship, much flashier than his own, made the process all the more tedious. By the time he managed to get away, the sun was sinking low over the horizon.

He made his way to a post overlooking the courtyard to watch the soldiers at their evening drill. If he was to build a Queen's Guard, he would need to select the most capable and trustworthy recruits, and that meant observing, among other things, how well they fought. There were a few promising possibilities, and he made a note to keep a closer watch on them.

He ate dinner in his usual place, about a third of the way down one of the long trestle tables. He was aware that his new status enabled him to seat himself at the head table reserved for the Queen and those most favored among her retinue, but he had no desire to deal with the hubbub and gossip that doing so would stir up. It suited him fine to sit here, amongst the common food and the common folk, where he had always sat.

In truth, he had a better view of her here than he would have had from the end of the High Table. Occasionally he watched her, conversing with the nobles and her advisors, listening to their demands of her, picking at her meal, and glancing out to survey her people. When her gaze fell upon him, a secret smile stole across her face, and her eyes locked with his for a long moment before her attention was jerked back suddenly to answer the query of the Earl of Lathmore, who had been chattering away to her left.

Just as he was finishing his simple meal of beef and barley stew, a messenger appeared with a folded piece of paper. It bore the Queen's personal seal, so he used his knife to lift the wax, being careful not to let anyone else catch a glimpse of its contents. Inside, she had written only two words.

_As Always?_

He stared at the paper, reading it again. He had wondered how things between them would proceed. Now that she could sleep comfortably in her own chambers, he had wondered if she would come to rely less on his presence. Indeed, though she had called him to her the first few nights in her new chambers, she had not summoned him these past two nights. He had found his own bed a surprising lonely place, and had slept restlessly. Despite this, he had told himself that he was pleased she no longer needed to depend upon his comfort, and that he was not disappointed by the ending of a ritual that was, by most any standards, wholly inappropriate.

Now, though… his heart swelled in his chest as he read her words, and he was forced to admit that he had missed her fiercely. He glanced to the Head Table again, and found her watching him, a question in her eyes. Would he accept her invitation, knowing that it was now borne out preference, rather than desperate need? He nodded once, and was rewarded with her relieved smile. In that instant, he realized something that he had not accepted before. He was in love with her.

Oh, he had known he loved her. One did not make a fool of oneself and risk one's life time and time again out of mere kindness. But this was something else, something deep within him that he had not felt since Sara. He had fought against it both consciously and unconsciously, because to accept it in himself could bring only heartbreak of the slow, agonizing variety. But he could fool himself no longer. He was in love with her. Deeply, impossibly, irrevocably, infuriatingly, and above all, impossibly in love with her.

And like a moth to a flame, he would go to her this night, and most likely every night she wished it. He would love her chastely in silence and remain steadfast in his devotion until she either tired of him or married another. Even then, he realized, his love for her would most likely remain, a flame within him that would never die, no matter how harshly in singed his heart. And yet, he would face that sentence with joy if it meant another night by her side, or another day in her radiant presence.


	4. Demons of the Past

She must have been waiting for him, as the door swung open at his knock. She greeted him with a bright smile and a teasing, "My Lord." He regarded her sternly.

"Aye, and what _was_ that today?" he asked, shutting the door behind him. "You know I've never coveted a title."

"That's exactly why you needed one," she replied, turning to pour some wine from a small decanter.

"Oh? Because of the lack of it?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I suppose that if I were to confide in you that I also don't possess tears cried by the moon, or the jeweled heart of the sea, you'd endeavor to equip me with those as well?" Far from having the desired effect, however, his comment brought an amused smile to her lips.

"Of course not." She took a deep breath. "When I was a girl, I used to play in the palace courtyards with the other children of the castle. William most of all, as he was closest to me in years. It was rough play, tumbling and chases and sometimes whacking at each other with sticks. That is, unless my mother was supervising us. Then, more often than not, he'd remember his manners and play games that was automatically doomed to lose. Mother never said anything to him to make him behave more courteously, and I don't believe that anyone else did either. It was simply the fact that he- and the other children as well, knew that someone was aware of how they were behaving. I've found it much the same with the nobility." She glanced at him shrewdly. " Although they knew you to have some presence in my court, how often have they listened to you? How often did they take heed of your advice?"

"Somewhat infrequently." He was forced to admit. "Am I much mistaken, or did you in fact just compare the nobility of your land to children?"

She smiled. "I should say so. The way they squabble and antagonize each other, covet what each other possesses and tattle on one another, there are some days when it seems this palace is inhabited by a hoard of persnickety toddlers."

"Have I mentioned yet my gratitude for being formally included among this collection of esteemed individuals?" he asked dryly. This prompted a hearty laugh from her.

"The title itself is little more than a measure so that they know you act on my authority and with my support. Think of it as a signal to them that someone- namely I- am watching, and that they should at least be courteous in their games. Apart from that, you may do with your title what you will."

He considered this for a moment. "I suppose it will do," he conceded. She held one of the wine goblets out to him.

"A toast to your new status then," she proposed.

"To squabbling children." He agreed with mock solemnity as his raised his own glass, and was gratified to see her smile widen further. She tapped their glasses together with a musical _clink_, and lifted her own glass to her lips.

Try as he might, he could not help but be mesmerized by the, slender column of her throat, tilted back as she drank, and the way that the motion highlighted the smooth expanse of skin below it, displayed to remarkable effect by the low cut of her green and gold brocade dress. The cloth was beautiful, and served to bring out the green of her eyes, yet he would be lying if he were to claim that it were her eyes he was currently focused on. He was powerless to do aught but appreciate her flawless ivory skin and the sensuous sell of her bosom as it rose enticingly over the confines of the dress's square-cut neckline.

How exquisite it would be to touch her freely, to skim his fingers across that perfect skin, to feel the silkiness of it against his lips. What reaction would she have if he dared to press a trail of kisses up her throat and let his breath ghost along the contours of her spine? Would she shiver, or gasp, or swoon? Belatedly, he reigned in his fantasies. His vow to love her chastely was certainly off to an inspired start. He gulped at his wine, praying that the raised glass would obscure his face enough that she did not observe the lust in his eyes.

The wine was sweet- far sweeter than he was accustomed to. It was a summer wine, the kind of wine a child would favor. Of course it was, he berated himself. Her captors would not have served her wines during her imprisonment. She would not have had time to develop a more discerning palate. She was so fierce, and brave, and wise beyond her years that it was too easy to forget that in this way- and in so many others, she had never had the chance to be anything more than a child. His shame at the way he had looked at her only seconds before deepened.

What she needed from him was protection, not lechery. He schooled his features into a placid expression and set the empty glass upon the table. Her brow furrowed for a fleeting second, but then the look of concern was gone and she turned her back to him, sweeping her hair over one shoulder.

It had become their unspoken ritual. He moved to her, his fingers deftly releasing the laces that held the panels of her dress together. He had gotten far more adept at this than the night she had first asked it of him several weeks ago.

"You know," he said conversationally as he attacked the ties, "there is another aspect of your decree today to consider."

"And what is that?" She asked.

"Well, you've tasked me with the creation of your personal guard, a group of men willing to give their lives for yours and charged with guarding you every minute."

"I have. I believe that you are more than capable of the task. At least, you are far better suited that most others I could assign to do it."

"I'm sure I'm honored," he said blandly.

She glanced back over her shoulder with a smirk.

"There!" she exclaimed. "And you thought you had no gift for the elegant words and empty sentiments of life at court. You sound practically an expert already." He narrowed his eyes at her, but she only grinned.

"Be that as it may," he continued, "I wonder if it has occurred to you that the man you've assigned to organize, train, and oversee this guard is the very same man whom you would have defy them by sneaking in to your personal chambers each night. It's perhaps a conflict of interest, isn't it?"

She considered this a moment.

"Well, at least you need not worry that they'll report you to their commanding officer," she said lightly, "being as how that would be first you, and then I suppose me, and we are already both aware of the situation."

"That wasn't exactly my point."

"I know." She stepped out of the gown, gathered it in her arms, and carried it with her into the smaller room that served as her dressing chamber. Though she disappeared from view, she left the door open so they could still converse. He hesitated, then forged ahead. It wasn't something he was eager to pursue, yet his purpose here was to look out for her, not his own self-interest. He began unfastening the hooks that held his vest closed as he spoke, choosing his words carefully.

"Have you considered what would happen if our…evenings together were discovered? How your other lords and advisors might react?" He shrugged the vest off and laid it across the back of a nearby chair. She emerged from the dressing chamber with her hairbrush in hand and her eyes flashing.

"And what business is it of theirs?" She demanded.

"In my experience, people have a peculiar way of determining what is, and what is not their business that rarely corresponds to what we would have them believe. It seems to be no one's business if the village baker beats his wife, yet everyone's business if she is rumored to be having a tryst with the candle-maker."

Her anger seemed to deflate a bit.

"Even so," she said, "Why should they care? There is nothing untoward between us. You have made sure of that."

He thought of the times he had felt her lips pressed against his own, three times in total, of the way he had become so accustomed to helping her to strip her from her dress, the nights he had spent in the same bed with her and awoken uncomfortably aroused, and of the intensely inappropriate thoughts that he had just chased from his mind. He did not think is so much of a stretch to _untoward_. Still, he was not about to argue the point with her.

On a whim, he held out his hand, gesturing for the hairbrush. She relinquished it without question and moved to perch on the bed. He sat behind her and gently, tentatively, began to draw the brush through her hair. Part of him felt eminently foolish- a man of such brawn and physical ability as himself sitting with a delicately filigreed silver hairbrush clasped in his large fist, voluntarily acting the part of a lady's maid. And yet, anyone who thought that would be the fool themselves, because they did not feel the silky slide of her raven tresses under their fingers, or hear the nearly-inaudible hum of pleasure that she made as he devoted himself to the task. He committed the sensations to memory, another tiny piece of her that he had not had before. Still, he did not intend to let it distract him from the topic at hand. He drew an audible breath.

"I'm not certain that everyone would agree, Milady," He said carefully. "For some, the mere hint of impropriety would be enough to cast your…purity into question."

"And then what?" she asked tiredly, "Would they then turn against me, the lords and ladies and my subjects, because they have decided that my reign is dependent upon the purity of my body, rather than that of my blood or my heart?"

He sighed.

"I doubt they would abandon you as readily as that. But it could make your life and your reign increasingly difficult. You should know what risks it is you take." He sighed, set the hairbrush aside, and moved to rise. "Perhaps I should go."

She said nothing, though he could feel the weight of her gaze upon him. He kenned the meaning of her silence. She did not want him to leave, but neither would she command him to stay. This decision would be all his own.

He had retrieved his abandoned vest and had nearly reached the door when he heard her speak. She spoke quietly, yet her words seemed loud in the quiet sanctuary of the room.

"Do you think me pure, Huntsman?"

There was something odd about the way she said it that had him pausing and turning back to her. She knelt in the bed, the white linen of her nightdress hiked to her knees. There was something unusual in her eyes, something he did not like seeing there- as much angry and defiant as it was fragile and frightened.

"Is that why you hold yourself back from me?" she challenged. "Because you think I know nothing of the carnal appetite of men?"

He was at a loss for a reply. The ground here had suddenly become as murky as a swamp, and he was uncertain where it was safe to step.

"Do you think," she continued, "that being locked behind bars in a tower room offered some sort of _protection_ for me, along with my captivity?" Though her voice never wavered, her eyes shone with the glint of unshed tears. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"What is you meaning?" he asked with a steadiness he did not feel. He moved toward her slowly, quietly, so as not to startle her, much the way he might approach a startled deer. She directed her attention to her own hands.

"He used to watch me. At night, while I slept. Or at least, while I pretended to sleep."

"Who?" he bit out, feeling a rage begin to bubble up inside him.

"Finn. The Queen's brother. The one who took your wife."

His rage reached a boiling point. If the man were not already dead, he would kill him again this very second.

"When I was younger, I think it was just that he enjoyed watching me because my captivity was a testament to their triumph. She hardly ever came though- it was always him. And then, as I got older, it… changed. He wasn't just there to gloat anymore. He wanted something else. He would stand outside the door for what seemed like hours, peering through the bars. And then I would hear noises. The rustling of cloth, and heavy breathing, and other muffled sounds that I did not understand. It puzzled me at first, and frightened me."

Eric's throat choked with revulsion for the perversion of the dead man. He didn't interrupt her tale, however. He could see that this was like a demon that had been trapped inside her, and needed to be set free.

"There was a girl there one time it happened, in the other cell. She helped me to understand what it was he was doing. What he wanted from me. At least then I wasn't puzzled. After awhile, I wasn't really even afraid anymore, either. He always stayed outside the door. Watching. He never tried to come inside." She glanced up, seemingly gauging his reaction, and he had to will himself to unclench his fists. Her next words had them clenching again, however, in anguish not only for her, but for himself as well.

"Then something changed. He came, but during the day. And he brought the key to my door with him." She had begun picking nervously at the hem of the nightdress. He wanted to reach down and touch her, comfort her, but he was afraid what doing so might prompt in her. So he stood helplessly and did nothing while she forged ahead with her tale.

"I had a nail. An iron nail that I had found and pulled from the wall only moments before. I lay in my bed, hiding it from view. I guessed that if I was in the bed, he would come close to me, and I was right. He came closer, and I waited. I needed him to be close. I had to wait. I had to let him touch me." Her lips curled in disgust. "I lay there, and let him put his hands on my body, in places where I had never been touched before or since. I waited until he put his hand here." at this she brought her own hand to her breast to illustrate. "And that's when I lashed out at him. While he roared with pain, I made my escape, locking him in the call behind me." When she looked at him again, her eyes were dull. "The rest you know."

"I am so sorry." He whispered. "What you knew… it is far from the way that such things are meant to be."

"I know that," she said. "Celeste told me. That was the girl's name. Celeste. She promised me that not all men were like Finn- that in fact most were good, and kind, at least in their own way. She said to me that one day I would find a man who was completely unlike Finn, and that when I did, I would want him in a way I could not then imagine. She told me that there is nothing that burns more sweetly than the desire of love. I confess that I found it hard to believe her. It seemed impossible that I would ever leave the tower, and that I would find a man whose touch I yearned for, who could make me go breathless and weak at the knees, or whom I would dream of kissing. I never thought to trust a man so deeply that I would offer him my heart. And then I met you, and everything Celeste promised years ago suddenly seems possible." She looked up at him sadly. "Does it change the way you think of me, Huntsman? To know that the purity and innocence you think you are protecting are already tarnished?"

"No. Never." He vowed vehemently. "I have seen you calm trolls, charm beasts, and inspire men. I have watched the white stag bow before you. I know that your purity is of the heart, and of the soul. I could never doubt it." He knelt on the bed beside her, sliding one arm tenderly around her shoulders. "I will defend it with every fiber of my being." She sagged against him wearily as he finished speaking.

"Then let us sleep," she said. "You will stay the night?"

"I will stay the night," he agreed, his earlier thought to leave all but forgotten. She needed him here.

"Good." She pressed against his chest with the palm of her hand. He laid back obligingly, and expected her to do the same. Instead, she lifted his arm, tucked herself underneath it, and lay her head on his chest like a pillow. He stayed awake long after her shallow breathing told him that she slept, staring and the ceiling and wondering how he could possibly protect her from the things that had already happened.


	5. There Would Be a Difference

"Ah, thank you, My Lord." He said, catching the edge of the door that had not been held open for him. William started, obviously unaware of the Huntsman's presence behind him. There were advantages to wearing boots made for hunting rather than boots made for appearing stylish. William owned the former, of course, but was too much in favor of tradition to wear them to a formal meeting of the Queen's Council. Eric had no such qualms. Hell, if he did suddenly turn up in attire typically categorized as "suitable" they would lose one of their favorite things to gripe about. He figured that he was doing them a service.

"How good to see you, Lord Huntsman," William returned neutrally. "I have not seen you about the palace in past days. I trust you are well?"

"Oh, very. I have been out in the villages, looking into potential recruits for the Queen's Guard."

"I did not know that our army was so insubstantial that you needed to seek recruits from amongst the ranks of bakers and bookbinders." William's words tone was light, but carried an unmistakable air of disapproval.

"Actually, one of my recruits is a cobbler," Eric said easily.

"A…cobbler?"

"Aye. He makes a fine pair of shoes at quite a reasonable price. He also happens to be one of the best archers in the land." He feared he took too much enjoyment in leading the other man astray. Oh by the way, I took the time to visit your tailor, as you suggested last week. He's quite a fine one, too. Had my new vest ready by the time I was heading back to the palace." He buffed an imaginary piece of dust off the dark leather. There were subtle differences between this vest and his old one- a slightly sleeker cut and a finer quality of leather less suited for tramping through the woods, but for all intents and purposes, it looked practically undistinguishable from its predecessor. The expression on William's face was priceless. There seemed little reason to spoil the fun by telling him that the tailor had also agreed to deliver a number of other, more traditional garments to the palace when they were finished.

William was saved from having to come up with a polite reply, however, by the arrival of the Queen. She swept into the room through the door which led to the throne room. That, coupled with the hint of tension that played across her brow, told him that she had just come from hearing petitioners. Important though she felt it was, he knew it drained her to be around crowds of people demanding her attention after spending so many years in solitude. Yet he was also aware that in an odd way she loved it- hearing about the concerns of her people. In the same way, she genuinely cared for the nobles and councilors who alternately bickered and fawned around her. He did not know how she did it, and did not envy her position the slightest bit. All that she endured would drive him mad were he in her shoes.

There was a momentary bustle and scraping of chairs as the eleven lords that made up the council hurried to seat themselves in the best seats possible, the nearer to the Queen the better. There were only two apart from himself who did not jockey for position. The first was Robert Stanley, the Lord Treasurer, who, being as he controlled the purse strings of the kingdom, was already quite assured of his own indispensability. The other was Lord Windermere, a portly, elderly lord who occupied a place on the council more for his long memory and cheerful demeanor than his political influence. He actually quite liked Lord Windermere. The old man found some of the less pressing discussions just as idiotic he did, and would often amuse himself by drawing unflattering caricatures of whomever was bleating the loudest. He was particularly fond of one that compared Lord Covington's likeness to that of a sheep. The resemblance was really quite striking. He had been forced to hide a smile behind his fist on more than one occasion. In any case, it was typically the three of them who obliged the others by taking seats at the far end of the table, as they did again today. Once everyone was settled, the meeting commenced.

It dragged on for more than an hour without incident, with discussions and reports of the goings-on in the kingdom, from the price of grain exports to the continued shortage of wool for the clothmakers to make and trade. The trouble came when the Queen announced her intention to follow through on a desire she had earlier expressed to tour the kingdom. This prompted a flurry of discussion and debate: Which noble homes should she honor with her visit? Which route was most advantageous for her to take? How many servants and attendants should be brought along, and then how many soldiers? How many mules she comprise the baggage train to supply the Queen and her retinue?

At first, she endeavored to rein them gently back in, insisting that she wanted to travel with only a small party. Still, there continued to be suggestions after suggestion of "necessary" addition, and she eventually sat back, jaw clenched as she waited for the fuss to die down. He could see that she was losing patience.

The suggestion that another six mules would have to be added to the baggage train in order to carry the feed for the other mules already added was clearly the last straw.

"My Lord Huntsman," She interrupted, her voice sounding clear above the chatter, "You have not spoken much on the matter. Tell us, what are your thoughts?" Heads swiveled to look in his direction. He held her eye for an extra second, then turned his attention to the council.

"While it is true that the Queen must be afforded adequate protection," he acknowledged, "Most of the roads in the kingdom were never designed for the passage of long trains of carts, wagons, and horses. What's more, many routes fell into disrepair during Ravenna's reign. It might be prudent to insist on a more modestly sized party that can travel lighter and faster on the roads."

She shot him a look of gratitude. It was replaced a moment later, however, with a flicker of frustration as Lord Covington suggested that they simply limit the journey to only those thoroughfares of sufficient size and quality as to support the full royal excursion. Several of the lords voiced their immediate approval of the proposal. By the time the meeting ended, the entourage had indeed been scaled down a bit (it seemed that they could eliminate the need for one of the original twenty-three mules) and preparations were estimated to require a minimum of two months. Even this was uncertain, as William had then been the one to question whether it would then be occurring too late in the year, and another lord had jumped on the notion and asked if it wouldn't be better to put the even off until the following spring?

At this point, the Queen had thanked them all for their contributions and firmly dismissed them, saying that they could continue the discussion at the next council meeting. As they stood to leave, she signaled that he should remain behind, and so he lingered unobtrusively while they all tricked out in groups of two and three.

When they were alone, she let out her breath with a great sigh. In a second, the regal demeanor disappeared, and just was simply the woman he had come to know. He preferred her that way. He could tell she was discouraged however.

"I'm sure much will be resolved at the next council meeting," he said, more to lift her spirits than out of any true belief in the possibility. She saw right through him, however, and gave a derisive, patently unladylike snort.

"No, it won't. But it's a lovely thought nonetheless." She turned her head to stare out one of the windows. They ran from floor to ceiling along the long walls of the chamber, and were by far the best feature of the council chamber. On the warmest days, they could be thrown open to let cross breezes dusk and blow through the room, while in the winter (he had been told) the frost etched stunning designs upon each pane of glass that were chased away each day by the heat from the two great stone fireplaces at either end of the room.

He knew she had fond memories of her father in this room, and remembered childhood days when many of the lords who sat on the council now had sat around this table with the King, considerable younger and less world-weary than they looked now. Everyone had lost a great deal when Ravenna came, weaving her spell over the castle. Yet this room, they had learned from the servants, had largely escaped her touch.

The Black Queen, as the common folk had taken to calling her, had disliked both this room and the idea of a Monarch's Council, and so had ordered the room locked and never opened. When they had reclaimed the castle and unlocked these doors, there had still been a handful of old papers shoved into the drawer of the scribe's desk, some in the King's own hand. He knew that Snow White kept them still, carefully folded and tied with ribbon, in the chest of drawers in her bedchamber. Although there were plenty of reminders of him everywhere, the scraps of paper those scraps of paper had been one of the few things remaining that had been solely his.

He understood their appeal. He himself still carried in his money ouch a single copper coin that his own father had given him when he was a boy. It was of little value, and he was not normally one for sentiment, but not matter how destitute and desperate he had gotten in his time, he had never traded it away.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, she rose and stepped closer to the glass.

"Look at them," she murmured. He stepped up behind her and followed her gaze to where two children, probably the children of palace servants, were attacking each other gleefully with swords made out of sticks and imagination.

"William and I used to play like that," She said wistfully. "Things were simpler then. It all seems so very complicated now. Back then, all we wanted was to play in the courtyard and steal cakes from the kitchen. We used to plan elaborate raids to get them, us and all of the other children." She shook her head. "Now? Things are different. Though he does not say it, he wants more. Of life, of me, and I don't know how to please him."

"He wants to be important." Eric observed. In a moment of boldness, he placed his hands on her shoulders, using his fingers to ease the tension from them. She pulled her hair out of the way, relaxing into his touch. "He has been important his entire life, and he does not lack ambition. I believe he means well by you, but he will never be content. Even if you grant him more that you are willing, it will still not be enough. He will always aspire to be more, do more, and have more. If you let him wed you, he would even mean to rule."

"You think he wants to marry me?"

"I think he looks at you like he is thinking it."

"And you believe that he wants me only for my crown?"

"Not that alone, no. He cares for you- that is plain. You were children together, and share a bond because of it. But I believe that part of what attracts him to you is the fact that you _are_ a Queen. He is the son of a Duke. Without your hand, there is little farther that his star can rise. He knows this, and it colors the way he sees you."

"And how do you see me, Huntsman?"

His fingers stilled on her neck.

"I honor and protect my Queen." He replied dutifully. Then he leaned closer, close enough that she could feel his words echo in the air beside her. "But even if she were not my Queen, I would honor and protect her all the same."

She turned to face him, challenging and inquisitive.

"So if we were just normal people, if there were not a realm and a crown between us, you are saying that everything would still be exactly the same as it is? There would be no difference?"

"No." He responded, unable to keep the hunger for her from his eyes as he reached to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "There would definitely be a difference."

Her breath faltered, and for a wild second he thought she might actually kiss him again, there in front of the windows with the sun streaming in, highlighting them in the view of anyone who looked up from the courtyard. He was both relieved and disappointed when she stepped back instead, turning to the table and cutting the moment short. She took a few seconds to gather herself, for both of them to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had transpired between them.

"So tell me how the recruitment of my guard is coming." She said, changing the topic to something more neutral.

"Very well, Milady," he replied, and began to update her on the progress that he had made during the days he had spent away from the palace. The conversation from there on was brief, and mercifully painless, but if anyone had pressed them about it even minutes later, they both would have been at a loss to recount what they had said.


	6. Going Back

The knock woke him in the early morning hours. He had been asleep in his own bed. This night, he had not gone to her, and she had not requested it of him. He didn't think it wise, in any case. Something had shifted between them with his earlier admission, and her talk of marriage and William. He had known that it would be something she needed to consider- the Kingdom would one day need an heir, after all. He just hadn't realized that she was equally aware of it. It made him uncomfortable that she was, for it hurried the day when she would no longer have need of him, to protect her, and also to comfort her. Even, perhaps, to be near her. The difficulty was that he could not foresee a day when _he_ no longer had need of _her_.

He had claimed to be better than William, but was he really? William certainly loved her because she was the Queen, where Eric loved her despite it. Only one man could hope to have her, and he already knew that he did not have the advantage there. Could not have it, for he could not hope to marry her, and as for the other… he would not take from her what could not be replaced. She had lost too much already.

So he had resigned himself to another lonely night, telling himself that it was for the best. He had been out in the villages for nearly a week anyway- it did not seem so strange to have a bed to himself once again.

Yet, he knew the knock. It could only be her. He opened the door, expecting to see her. He was not, however, expecting her to be standing before him fully dressed in boots, leggings, and a short dress, as short as he had chopped hers in the woods when they first met. Yet this was not that garment- this was not hacked off with an axe, but intentionally made in the fashion, neatly hemmed and trimmed. Her hair was braided and she carried a rucksack over her shoulder.

"What in the name of Heaven…" he hissed, pulling her inside and shutting the door behind her.

"I am not waiting," She announced. "I am going to see my kingdom, truly see it, and not from the window of a carriage drawn be steeds and trailed by a caravan of mules." She shot him a defiant look. "Every report that we have had says that things that were dead are returning to life, growing and blooming and raising hope throughout the land. The entire purpose of seeing my realm is to see this, and so see my people as they truly live, not to sit safe and ignorant behind castle walls, admiring tapestries and being waited on by servants. " Her lips tightened. "I mean to go now. Tonight. And I'd like you to come with me."

"No." he said automatically, without really pausing to consider what she had said. He was astounded by the absurdity of the idea.

"I'm going." She insisted.

"It's stupid." He said flatly.

"That's quite the change from when you claimed to be in favor of me traveling to see my kingdom."

"Aye, back when it was a plan for you to journey with guards, and supplies, and other people- not when it is a reckless, rash agenda to endanger your own life."

"Ah. I see. Your concern is that I lack "adequate protection?" she asked sourly, echoing his words from the council meeting.

"Yes!"

"Then come with me."

Eric crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"I am not _adequate protection,_" he informed her.

"You managed well enough before," she pointed out.

"Those were very different circumstances. And need I remind you that you did not emerge from that ordeal unscathed."

"I emerged _alive_," she argued, "Which I'd say gives us pretty fair odds, considering that we'd no longer be running from the henchmen of an evil queen who wants to consume my heart." She looked him squarely in the eye, not cowed by either his stature or his obvious frustration. "I am leaving. Now. You are free to choose this time to refuse me, but even if you do, I will go alone. I think we both know that I would be safer if you came with me." With that, she turned on a booted heel and left the room.

He could try to do something. Inform someone else, maybe, and hope that they could make her see reason where he could not. It would only be waste of time, though. He knew intractable, pig-headed determination when he saw it, and damned if she didn't have a stronger streak of it than most. It had allowed her to withstand and endure each hardship she had faced- and it was why he knew there would be no convincing her.

With a muttered curse, he began throwing things into his own rucksack, thankful for his habit of never unpacking fully. Casting a hasty glance around, he slung the bag over his shoulder and wrenched open the door. He needed time to reach the kitchens and steal some food before he tried to catch up with her.

He found her in the stable, about to mount the horse. She had two saddled and bridled, but only one was laden with saddlebags and supplies. When she caught sight of him, she slid her foot back out of the stirrup and rushed to meet him.

"You came!" she exclaimed.

"It's still a foolish plan," He told her crossly.

"Less so now that you're here" she told him lightly. He gave a non-committal sort of grunt, but knelt to give her a boost into the saddle. His had brushed her knee lightly, lingering for only a second, a touch so brief it might have been accidental… or might have been what it was- a touch to reassure himself of her presence and her safety, at least in this moment.

It took him a matter of minutes to secure his own belongings and swing up into the saddle of the second horse. As soon as he was seated, she clucked softly to the horse and set them moving to the stable door. Shaking his head to himself, he followed her.

Outside, the sky was the deep, rich blue that precedes even the breaking dawn. The world had lightened enough to outline the shapes that hulked and loomed in the darkness- stone walls, stacks of barrels, and bales of hay. All were inky shadows and silhouettes, for it was still too dark to reveal detail and color. The vibrant hues had been leeched out of the world, replaced with shades of blue and grey and black.

The clop of horses hooves sounded loud as they broke the stillness and silence, although they moved slowly and fairly quietly. He wondered for a brief moment how she intended to pass the guards at the main gate, but she didn't lead them there at all. Instead, she led them toward a smaller, postern gate in the North wall. He had to duck considerably to make it through without hitting his head on the close stone arch. Once clear, he brought his mount up alongside hers.

"Where do you intend to go, Your Majesty?" he asked mildly, trying very hard not to let his voice be clouded by any of the myriad of things he was feeling that should not be addressed to a queen.

"West," she said decisively.

"Into the forest?" he asked, somewhat surprised. He had expected that she would want to head east, to the larger villages and towns along the coast.

"Into the forest," she confirmed.

Heaven help him, but he could not help but feel a thrill of excitement at her words. It wasn't only that the journey was beginning to appeal to his sense of adventure, much as he would have claimed that as the cause. No, it was also something far less noble. The forest was where he had met her, where he had begun to fall in love with her, even grief-stricken as he was. It was where she had been a girl- just a girl, and not the Princess. Not the Queen. It was his place, and theirs. And they were going back.


	7. Lost and Found

By the time they reached the forest, picking their way along the rutted, weed-choked path, the sun had begun to creep over the horizon, its golden light tinting the sky the palest of pinks and blues. He was glad of it. The roadway was treacherous enough in the dark, between the pits and divots in its surface, and the patches of marshy ground that sometimes crept right up to its edges. It was not so hazardous as the forest, however. Not even he was foolish enough to enter the forest in the darkness. Although the Western Forest was generally regarded as the least perilous part of the wood, it was not a place to be taken lightly. The peasants here would occasionally hunt and gather within it, but only so deep as they could still see the fields through the gaps in the trees. It was by no means a friendly place, but still, it was the narrowest part of the dark woods. There was a crossing her knew of that could take a man on a solid horse out the other side in fewer than two days.

Of course, that meant spending at least one night beneath the ominously bare branches of the forest. They had stopped at the point where he intended to enter the forest, and brought the horses to a halt. He scanned the trees warily, looking for signs that this was indeed the right place, and that all appeared safe. Neither of them had spoken in the past couple hours of riding, and so he started when she suddenly spoke.

"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed in a hushed tone. He was puzzled as to what, precisely, she found so compelling here, in this barren stretch of land. He turned to see what she was looking toward, and had to admit surprise. The mist creeping along the marshy ground had caught the rising sun, and turned into the stunning blanket of silver and gold, swirling above the grasses. It hid the weeds and the land's less pleasant features from sight, and made it look lush and green. This land had lain abandoned and fallow for almost as long as he could remember, but off in the distance, he caught a glimpse of plowed and planted fields. Some farmer- or perhaps a group of them- was struggling to reclaim the land, and successfully too, it seemed. That sight alone amplified the sudden, unexpected beauty of the place.

"It is," he agreed with her, his tone belying his wonderment. "I haven't seen this place look like this in many years. Not since I was a lad. It is a welcome sight."

"So it's true. The land is coming back to itself, now that Ravenna's gone?"

"So it seems, Milady. I don't suppose, now you've seen it with your own eyes, that you want to go back to the castle?" he asked, waiting on her response. It would be easier if she wanted to return, but easier was not something to which he was accustomed. And selfishly, he knew what he hoped to hear. He was not disappointed.

"No! I want to see it all!" she exclaimed, "Not just some small part of it barely out of sight of my own palace walls."

"Then onward we go." He said, nudging his mount into motion and turning toward the tree line.

For all her enthusiasm, he noticed that she became tense and still as they entered under the shadows of the snarled, skeletal branches. He couldn't fault her- he himself was wary and ill-at-ease. The forest had that effect on everyone, particularly those who knew firsthand what unpleasantness and danger lurked within its depths.

They spoke little as the day progressed. For all that the branches above them stretched bare to the sky, the weight of them in the mist was oddly suffocating, and served to stifle all feeble attempts at communication. They stopped briefly at midday to rest the horses and to replenish their own bodies with bites of hard sausage and sharp cheese that he had pilfered from the kitchens. After that brief reprieve, they re-mounted and continued on their plodding journey.

All too quickly, the weak sun began to sink toward the tops of the trees. He knew from past unpleasant experience that once it dipped below the branches, darkness came rapidly, and was nearly absolute. He would have preferred to make it further through the forest- as it was, he didn't think they'd covered even a third of the distance to the far side. However, with night coming on, it was more important to find a safe place to pass it. However relative "safe" might be. He called back to her as she picked her way carefully along the trail he set.

"We should look for somewhere to stop for the night." She nodded, and began scanning the landscape around them. Truth be told, there was little variation to be seen. One dense stretch of gnarled trees was much the same as another., all of them offering little in the way of either shelter or protection. Still, having a rock or an embankment at their backs would make for a slightly better situation, offering a barrier in at least one direction.

They rode on for several minutes as the sun continued to sink. He was beginning to fear that they would have to pass the night huddled up beneath the nearest tree when Snow called out.

"What about there?" she pointed.

Following the direction of her finger, he saw two small, struggling pine trees pushing their way up along the leeward side of a large rock. It was about the best they could have hoped to find, and he told her as much. She smiled broadly at the compliment.

As they headed toward the pines, , he realized with a start what he had just done. _Snow_. He hadn't called her that, even in his own mind, since they days when he had been leading her find the Duke. He didn't know quite what the make of this mental breach. It unsettled him. Still, he resolved, if he wanted to mull it over, he could do so later- but not now, when there was so much to be done before nightfall.

They saw to the horses first, getting them fed and settled a few paces away before settling in themselves. He brought more sausage and cheese out from his saddlebags, and they ate these in companionable silence, passing his smallest knife back and forth between them to slice bite-sized chunks off of the whole. As they ate, the forest descended into a murky, shadowy darkness. He saw her shiver just a little.

"I wish we could light a fire," she said wistfully, rubbing her hands together to warm her fingers.

"It's too dangerous," he reminded her. "There are many things here that would be drawn to the light."

"I know," she told him. "It's just that it's so cold, and damp. I can feel it in my bones."

"Come closer then." He told her practically, shrugging off his long leather coat and laying it over the ground. "It will not seem so cold if we stay close together." He sat atop part of the coat and patted the space beside him, then reached for their bedrolls to free their blankets. In doing so, he missed the smile that flickered across her lips.

He handed her one of the blankets to wrap herself in, and tossed the second over them both, hoping that the wool, along with his own body heat, would help to keep her warm. It seemed to work- she snugged herself up against him with a contented sigh. He was glad of the darkness that hid the amused twitch of his lips from her. Although not at all his intention, she might have thought the expression patronizing had she seen it.

Time crept by, the darkness became absolute, and here breathing evened out. He thought her asleep until she spoke, drowsy and low.

"Did you ever do anything like this with Sara? Spend nights with her out here, I mean. Like this."

"You mean, did I ever put my young, innocent wife in mortal danger by taking her out to a forest that most men fear to enter for a bit of a romantic tryst?" His words were mocking, but his tone was gentle. "I did not." He stared out into the blackness, debating whether he should volunteer more. "When we were first married, we lived with her brother and his wife while we found the means to build our own home. Sara sometimes traveled with me to nearby villages for supplies, but never out to the forest. I had been taking fewer and fewer jobs that led to the forest once I met her. She didn't like me to take the risk.

I didn't start going again until we had been married nearly a year. The crops we had tried to plant had failed- everyone's crops were struggling and failing in those days- and we were beginning to have difficulties repaying the merchants we had borrowed from to build our home.

I started taking jobs acting as a guide and guard for those that needed to enter the forest in daylight. By the next year, I was taking assignments that kept me there overnight, sometime two or three. Sara hated it, and to a lesser degree, I hated it too. I was uncomfortable leaving her alone so much of the time, but we needed the money that it brought. I told myself she would be fine. I was a fool." He was aware of how terribly bitter he sounded.

"What happened?" Snow White shifted, realigning herself beside him under the blankets, tucking her feet in for greater warmth.

"She died."

"I knew that," she said gently. "I was wondering how it happened."

All at once, he wanted to tell her, to spill it all out for her. He never talked of it- not to anyone- but it felt…right to tell her.

"I don't know," He confessed. "Not really." I came home from leading a trapping party through the forest outskirts. I had been gone three nights. She hadn't wanted me to go at all. I remember kissing her soundly before I left and promising her that this would be the last time I left her. When I got home, she was already gone." His chest grew tight with the memory.

"The front door was hanging from its hinges. That was the first thing. When I saw it, I knew…I knew in my core that something terrible had happened." Images flickered behind his eyelids- dropping his pack on the ground as he ran to the cottage. Screaming her name, heedless of the possibility of lingering danger. Falling to his knees in despair when he realized she had come to harm. "There were more signs of a struggle. The house was torn to pieces- smashed crockery and rent fabrics wherever I looked. She did not go easily, when they came for her." A shining note of pride entered his voice.

"No one could tell me what had happened- who had come for her, and why, or even where she might be. I searched for her, or course, determined to find her. I eventually discovered that soldiers from the palace had been in the village the night she was taken, and that another young woman- Marie, the miller's oldest daughter- had been abducted too. I journeyed to the palace and demanded answers, although I got none. I refused to leave though, convinced that if I was enough of a nuisance, I would learn what had happened. I was there more than a week, until I chanced upon John Thomas, the cooper from our village, coming to deliver a cartful of barrels for the palace storerooms.

He told me that the day he had left, a wagon had pulled into the town square with two bodies wrapped in shrouds. Sara, and Marie. The soldiers who drove the wagon claimed that they had been bringing the women to the castle for questioning of some kind, but that they had succumbed to illness along the way. It was three days journey back, and had already been three since John had left. I made it there in two. With the threat of spreading illness through…" He shook his head. "I was too late to see her buried. I arrived only in time to mourn at her grave."

"I'm so sorry." She whispered. It drew him out of his reverie. He realized that he did not know how long the silence had stretched. "Ravenna took her, didn't she?" Snow asked. "That's why the shrouds, and the excuse of disease, isn't it? To have them buried quickly, and force people like you stop asking questions."

"Yes."

There was another long pause.

"I think I hate her sometimes." She radiated tension, from the tightness of her muscles to that of her voice. "I tell myself that she couldn't have always been that way, that there must have been terrible things in her life that made her into what she was. But sometimes, I just _hate_ her. She took so much- from the kingdom, from everyone…. There are so many people that she killed or harmed and took away from their loved ones, like she took my father from me, and Sara from you."

"Sara wasn't all she took from me," he confessed slowly, struggling to find the words. "No one else knew- she had just told me the day before I last saw her. It was why I agreed not to go back to the forest." He drew in a shaky breath. "Sara was with child."

He could feel the horror dawn upon her, almost tangible in the air around them.

"Oh, _Eric_…" she breathed. Mercifully, she said nothing else, just shifted under the blankets to lay her hand atop his chest. One lonely tear squeezed from the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek as he pulled her close, accepting the comfort she offered. For once, he wasn't thinking about propriety or expectations; merely how strange it was that this time _she_ was comforting _him_, and not the other way around.

He slept fitfully and dreamed. Most he did not remember, but one in particular stayed with him. He dreamed of Sara, as he had not done for several years. She smiled at him, but did not speak. Yet there was a look in her eyes that he had always loved, a look that told him she understood him as no other had before, and that everything would somehow turn out alright. Then she turned, blew him a kiss, and walked away.

He awoke in the grey moments just before dawn with his face buried in the cloud of Snow's dark hair and a feeling of deep, resounding peace and contentment the likes of which he had not felt in many years. He breathed deeply, savoring the faint perfumed scent of her, closed his eyes, and let himself drift back to sleep for a few minutes more, feeling as though a weight he had not even been conscious of carrying had been lifted from him.


	8. A Hope For Dreams That Never End

They resumed their ride early in the morning after a hasty and somewhat-less-than-satisfying breakfast of nuts and dried berries. He warned her that it could be several days before they were clear of the gloom of the forest and she accepted the news without comment. The trees around them looked the same as ever- twisted, grasping, and difficult for the horses to pick their way through.

By mid-morning, however, he began to sense that something was…different. The air felt somehow lighter, and the smells of dampness, mold, and vegetative rot were lessened. They rode another mile or so, and the changes became visible as well. The color of the landscape softened, and the overcast sky became increasingly visible. As they rode close to the trunk of a tree, he saw something which shocked him- tiny shoot of green stemming from amidst the black bark. The tree was alive and putting forth new growth!

He called her forward to see the miraculous discovery. She touched the tiny shoot tenderly, stroking it with gentle fingers. Her eyes glowed with wonder.

"I remember Father and the Duke talking about the blight in the forest," she murmured. "It worried them deeply, at least until the Dark Army appeared a few weeks later." Her expression grew solemn. "Then they worried only about war." She glanced to him. "Is this simply as far as it spread, or is it…getting better?"

He surveyed their surroundings, shaking his head.

"No." he said shortly. "The forest should continue as it has been for another thirty miles or more. This… is new. I've never seen any growth on these trees."

Over the next few hours, the landscape continued to change around them. Tiny shoots of green became struggling leaves, and the twisted reeds and noxious black mushrooms gave way to tender young plants budding with promise. The forest lightened as the ever-present haze began to dissipate. The ride became easier as well, and they covered the distance in easily half the time he had anticipated. There were even sporadic twitters of birdsong that rang out from amongst the branches.

The trees gave way to clear land long before he had anticipated. It was rough land, to be sure, with numerous patches of cracked ground bare of any vegetation at all, but it was an end to the dark forest nonetheless. He felt some of the tension he had been carrying ease from his shoulders.

Before them, on the horizon, the verdant woodland slopes of the Old Mountains rose up gently against the sky. At the base of these hills, many miles distant, ran the River Willow. The Willow provided water, transport, sustenance and trade for the many small villages that had been formed along its banks. The Queen would no doubt want to see some of them, but the nearest was more than half a day's ride away- much too far to attempt to travel yet before the light faded. Although the clouds obscured the sun, he calculated that they could ride perhaps another hour or so before they would be forced to stop and make camp. The darkening sky to the west suggested that they might have even less time than that before it began to rain. He intended to share his observations with the Queen, but something else had clearly caught her attention.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing and leaning forward in her saddle. He had to squint to make out what it was she saw.

"Smoke." He said at last, "From either a campfire or a hearth- it's impossible to tell. It's a few miles away yet."

"Can we reach it before dark?" she asked, "I'd like to see what it is."

"Most likely…" he responded slowly, not entirely thrilled with the notion of rushing head-on toward the unknown with darkness falling and a storm rolling in. Still, the odds favored it being a farmhouse or a homestead rather than a band of outlaws camping on the plain in anticipation of kidnapping a Queen. The clouds were also looking more threatening with each passing minute. Shaking his head at his own hesitation, he nodded and turned his horse toward the faint wisp of smoke. As he did, he lifted the axe on his belt, checking that it could be pulled free with ease. One could never be too careful.

As it turned out, the smoke was coming from a farmhouse beyond the rise of a low hill, settled stubbornly in the middle of the rough land, surrounded by a pen of sheep and scraggly fields. The sheep didn't look much better. He hoped that the tenants would at least prove hospitable.

His hope deepened a moment later when the skies unleashed their fury. A few fat drops sprinkled down upon then, followed seconds later by a roaring deluge that seemed half-intent on drowning them, or at least obscuring their vision. They were forced to slow the horses to a walk so as to lessen the risk of them injuring themselves by stepping incorrectly on the mucky track.

By the time they reached the farmyard, they were soaked to the skin. As they rode up, the door of the cottage swung open, revealing a woman silhouetted against the warm light of its interior.

"Are ye travelers, or tax collectors?" she demanded, voice raised above the storm and hands braced upon her hips.

"Travellers!" the Queen called back.

"Well then," the woman shouted over the rising wind, "Ye'd best bed your horses down in the barn and come inside yourselves. There'll be a bowl of hot soup in it for yeh." Hot soup sounded like one of the greatest luxuries possible just now.

"Thank you!" he called to her. "We're grateful for it!" She nodded and stepped back inside the cottage, shutting the door behind her.

The barn was a low, modest building with clay walls and a roof of woven thatch. The walls were so low, in fact, that they had to dismount to lead the horses through the wide door. Inside, it was dim but blessedly dry. He swiped a hand through his wet hair, dragging the damp strands out of his face. His soaked clothing clung irritatingly to his skin, pulling and dragging as he tried to work. Snow's sodden garments clung to her as well, but he found the effect of it far less irritating. The slick sheen of rain on her skin and the way the wet cloth revealed the shape of her only served to increase her allure.

They worked together swiftly and efficiently to unburden and unsaddle their mounts, rubbing them down and giving them their feed. He worked diligently at his tasks, but could not keep his eyes from straying to her.

Like this, without crown or castle about her, it was easier to forget what troubles would arise if he were to give in to his desire to take her in his arms and kiss her soundly, to press her up against the wall of the barn and feel her writhe against him. He'd like that, he acknowledged, even as it guilted him. He'd like to have her slender legs wrapped around his waist and under his hands. He wanted to know what reactions he could draw from her merely by skimming his fingers over the wet leggings and teasing at her mouth with kisses.

Such thoughts were becoming increasingly frequent, and increasingly difficult to disguise. At least the dash they would have to make to the cottage in the cold rain should prove useful for something more than just moving them away from the offending wall and welcoming beds of soft straw that were fueling his imagination.

The cottage door was swung open as they approached, and they were ushered inside. He could see now that the woman was older than he realized. Wrinkles had begun to sink into her smooth face at the corners of her eyes and along the contours of her lips. Even with her hair pulled away from her face, he could see that its nut brown color was liberally sprinkled with strands of grey. She was certainly old enough to be his mother, although most likely not his mother's mother.

Fittingly, she clucked over them like a mother hen, fussing about their wet clothing, the likelihood of catching a shill, and how the weather outside was fit for neither man nor beast. He found himself struggling to suppress a grin at her antics. It had been some time since he'd had someone fuss over him like he was a child.

"There!" she exclaimed, "Both of you soaked to the skin and dripping wet. We'll have to get you into some dry clothing. Thom ought to have a few things you could wear," she mused, looking him over critically, then turning to Snow. "As for you, my dear, there might just be something in my hope chest to fit you. Believe it or not, I used to be almost as slender as you, but three bairns will make a difference in a woman's waistline." She grinned ruefully and patted her sturdy hips.

"You have three children, then?" Snow White asked with genuine interest.

"Ay, well, we did." She said a little sadly. "Eliza, our youngest, was taken by the Black Queen years ago and never heard from again and Thom Jr., our oldest, died in the Wars. Jared is all that's left now, but he's married with a house in the village and a wee one on the way, so he doesn't make it out here as often as he used to. He still comes by often enough to help with the livestock, but then, he's got his own business to attend to as well. He goes around to the various farms and helps with the sheep shearing, then bargains to sell the wool in larger lots for a better price for a share of the profits after it's split back out. He's got quite a head for numbers, that boy does. He gets it from Thom, I think. Certainly not from me!"

At this, a wiry grey-haired man ducked through the low doorway from the bedroom, his heavy boots clomping on the rough-hewn floor despite his gentle stride and came to stand beside his wife.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "My manners! This is my husband Thom," she gestured to him and then to herself. "And I'm Ida. I should have said right off."

"No worries," Eric said easily, reaching out to shake Thom's proffered hand. "I'm Eric." He introduced himself.

"And I'm Snow," the Queen volunteered, conspicuously leaving out any mention of her royal lineage.

"How did you come to be traveling together?" Ida inquired curiously. "Are you kin?"

Eric could not contain a grin of amusement. Snow smiled as well.

"Not exactly," she said. Just as well, he reasoned. If she wasn't going to tell these people that she was their monarch, it was best that she give them what answers she preferred them to have. She startled him, however, by wrapping her arm around his. "We're betrothed, " she announced. Shocked did not begin to cover his reaction to her statement. He blinked stupidly, wordlessly, until she pinched him.

"Ah…yes. Betrothed." He was rethinking his stance on leaving her to answer questions. The deception must seem painfully obvious to these onlookers. And yet, neither of them looked skeptical. Instead, Ida was beaming and a warm smile had even spread across Thom's lips.

"Oh, young love!" Ida exclaimed delightedly, clapping her hands together. "Do you remember, Thom, when we were that young and starry-eyed? How sweet on each other we were?"

"Aye." The older man said, looking fondly at his wife. "I do at that."

Eric remembered too, for a brief moment. The heady rush of being a young man newly betrothed…and a pang at the vision of a couple clearly still in love after a life with many hardships. He doubted that when he reached Thom's age he would have anyone to look upon with such obvious adoration.

He wondered what precisely had possessed Her Highness to give such a false answer. What purpose did she think it served? He would ask her, but there was neither space nor time to do so in front of this sweet farm couple without raising more questions. Instead, he played along, silently counting this among the multitude of foolish things he would scarcely hesitate to do for her.

Ida held true to her promise of dry clothing, ushering Snow into the small bedchamber, pressing a dry shirt and set of trousers into his hands with instructions to change quickly and set his clothes to dry before the fire. Thom graciously turned his back, staring out the cheaply glazed window at the rain and puffing quietly on a clay pipe that he had lit with the aid of a twig set ablaze by the crackling flame in the hearth.

The borrowed clothes fit well enough. Rolling the sleeves up on his forearm disguised the fact that the sleeves were too short. The cloth was rough homespun, worn soft with use, and was actually quite comfortable. Above all, he was glad to be wearing dry clothes again. He'd had plenty of experience travelling, hunting, and scouting in damp clothes, but it was an experience he was glad to have dodged this time. He hung the wet garments near the fire to speed their drying, and took a seat at the sturdy if somewhat rustic wooden chair that Thom offered him. He was about to ask Thom to tell him more about the running of the farm to fill the silence when the bedroom door opened and Ida emerged, followed by Snow.

His breath caught in his throat. He had seen her dressed in leggings and in all manner of courtly garb and had paid little mind to the clothing beyond moderate appreciation. But this… The dress was pale blue- the color of the sky on an early clear morning- and simple. The linen hugged her body to her hips and fell artfully to skim the floor. The dress's only adornment was a line of neat stitches in darker blue around the scooped neckline. Her black hair had been pulled away from her face and braided in a traditional style. She smiled slightly at him, and for a second he forgot to breathe.

He caught Ida's pleased grin over Snow's shoulder, and knew that she figured he was speechless because of the stunning beauty of the gown dress, which was exceptional by the standards of most common folk in the kingdom. This was not, however, the case. What made him hesitate to speak was how the dress made her appear so…normal. He was accustomed to see her decked in satins and velvets and costly muslins, looking every part the queen. But this…this was the way he saw her in his mind, the way he'd thought he'd never see her in life. The girl before him was, for a moment, neither Queen nor Princess nor child nor damsel in distress. She was … a woman. A beautiful one, with cheeks flushed faintly pink by the cold wind, and a smile meant for him alone.

She came to him, and when he held out his hand, she took it. His fingers curled into her narrow ones and he was moved to drawn them to his lips so that he could brush a kiss across her knuckles. Her skin was soft under his lips, and tantalizing. He wished that he could linger.

"You look stunning." He breathed, and she lowered her lashes and blushed at the compliment.

"Thank you." She murmured.

He was aware that Ida was watching them both closely, in the pleasantly nosy way that only older women can truly master. Thom, equally aware of this fact, cleared his throat quietly, drawing her attention and nodding toward the fire, where the black iron kettle bubbled.

"You'll be ready for soup then?" Ida asked rhetorically, catching her husband's meaning easily and bustling toward the kettle. It was served in plain stoneware bowls, fragrant and piping hot, with chunks of brown bread for dipping. After two days of damp weather, cold food, and hard riding, it seemed that no meal had ever tasted so good. They ate hungrily, and did not refuse the second helping that Ida ladled into their bowls. Over dinner, they talked of life on the farm, and the wool trade.

"Well lass, times are harder than ever these days," Thom said in answer to a question Snow had posed. "Our flocks have been dwindling for nearly a decade now. Back when King Magnus was alive, the flock here was 95 head of sheep. But the land's been dying, and it's taken the grasses with it. Only the hardiest scrub grass is left, and there's not enough of it to go around. Between the lack of food, the harsh winters we've had, and an infection that spread through all the farms in this area a few years ago, we've lost too many. The flock out there is down to 33 head now. Come spring, there'll be a few lambs, but not enough to make much of a difference. They're the most fragile, and least likely to make it."

"Is it the same everywhere?" Snow asked curiously.

"Most everywhere that I know of. It's not been an easy span of years."

"And that's the reason why there's such a shortage of wool in the Kingdom then."

"Aye, that's the way of it." He looked at her shrewdly.

"Things are getting better though, right? We've seen in our travels so far that plants and trees are starting to grow again."

"Yes, and no." Ida answered. Tom clarified the statement.

"The scrub grass is growing better this year, that's true. But the other things- the things that they need to eat to flourish and not just survive- the grasses and flowering plants like clover- those are gone, and they've not come back at all."

"What is it that you need most?" She asked earnestly, "To increase your flocks again."

"Land or seed." The older man answered sadly, "Neither of which are in supply. The land that could easily support a hundred head of sheep years ago isn't enough now to support the 33 out there. There's no more land to be had, and even if there was, I can't afford to buy it. Even then, it's not better than the land I already own in terms of quality."

"And there's nowhere that has seed. Jared has tried to buy some when he sells wool, but there's none to be had." Ida explained.

"I see." She said solemnly. "We're even more grateful for your hospitality." She smiled charmingly.

"It's no trouble, dear." Ida told her warmly. "We're glad of the company."

"We'd like to repay you for your kindness." Snow insisted. " There must be all manner of things that need doing around here. Please let us stay tomorrow and offer our help to you for the day."

"We'd be glad of it." Thom told her warmly. "More hands are never turned away."

They sat around the table talking and listening to Thom and Ida's stories until the candles burned low. The rain was still coming down, and Ida conceded (with a bit of nudging from Thom) that it wouldn't be improper to allow him to sleep on a pallet before the fire, rather than braving the weather to spend the night in the barn. This was provided, of course, that Snow stayed up in the cottage's sleeping loft, where a straw mattress was still set up for the use of guests.

"Yeh'd best give her quite the goodnight kiss to get ye through the night, m'boy," Thom advised him jovially. "As it's no treat to sleep upon this floor, extra quilt or no." He winked. "I know, as I've had the misfortune myself on more than one occasion after upsetting the missus."

He grinned at the older man's camaraderie, and Snow blushed a bit.

"I'll do that," he promised solemnly. He pulled her aside before she could climb the narrow ladder to the sleeping loft and spoke in hushed tones so that Ida and Thom did not hear. Finally, he had the chance to speak without rousing suspicions.

"Betrothed?" He whispered incredulously. "Why on earth would you tell these people that you and I are betrothed? Do you insist on courting chaos everywhere you go?"

"I didn't want them to know who I was," she explained in a reasonable tone, "And I thought it would be more comfortable for them- not to mention safer for us- if they thought us to be just typical travelers and did not know our true identities."

"So you decided that, rather than tell them I am your bodyguard, you would tell them that I was your _betrothed_?"

"A bodyguard might have seemed too unusual. I was _going_ to tell them that you are my brother," she fired back, "but I thought it might be difficult to explain the decidedly un-brotherly way you look at me." She swallowed, averting her gaze. "And why I look at you the same way. Betrothal seemed the more believable lie." She met his eyes squarely and her voice came out as little more than a whisper. "And you know that you are more than a bodyguard to me."

"Aye." He conceded slowly. "Aye, I do know that." He didn't give himself time to think of the reasons why he shouldn't do what he was about to do, why it was rash, and stupid, and beyond insanity. Her actions had driven him to infuriating distraction. "I said I'd do this, and I will," he promised roughly, stepping closer to her and crowding her against the wall. "So if you want me to stop, you'll have to tell me. Now." And with that, he bent, despite all his best intentions, to kiss her. If she wanted a betrothal, he'd give her a taste of it, by God.

The touch of his lips on hers was light, and would have been almost chaste except that he lingered, drawing the moment out far longer that he had intended. After several seconds he drew away slowly, reluctantly, checking to see that she was not affronted, though in fairness it was she who had set the stage of this in the first place. Her eyes were closed and her lips slightly parted in surrender. The sight only increased his wanting of her. He bent to claim those lips again, letting the tension of attraction simmer between them with every gentle press and brush of their lips.

She had kissed him before, but this was the first time he had kissed her- had pressed his lips to hers and felt her response, felt her lips moving under his and her breath shuddering in her lungs. He could not take this back, and God help him, he did not want to.

She stood against the wall, and he braced himself against the same with his forearm, yet their lips were all that touched. He could not keep himself from kissing her, from drinking in the experience of her like a fine wine. It was only when he found himself tempted to rush it, to press her against the wall and plunder her with his mouth that he knew he had to stop. When he pulled himself away, they were both dazed and breathless. He could feel his blood rushing in his veins in time to the rhythm of his beating heart.

"Goodnight." He whispered unnecessarily, resting his forehead against hers. She giggled, hiding a grin behind her fingers.

"Goodnight, Huntsman. Pleasant dreams."

"Undoubtedly." He grinned and stole a final swift kiss. "Sleep well, Y- _Snow_" he amended swiftly. Her smile widened.

He watched her climb the ladder and listened for the sounds of her settling into the straw mattress before he climbed into his own pallet, drew the quilt over himself, and drifted off to sleep with a broad smile on his lips.

The next day dawned clear, without even a hint of a cloud in the sky. The sun shone brightly, making the cold chill of the rain seem a distant memory. Only the mud puddles in the yard that reflected the brilliant blue of the sky above remained as testament to the deluge that had driven them all indoors the day before.

They awoke early to a breakfast of oatmeal sweetened with honey to start the day. Immediately after eating, Thom led him out to the farmyard to show him what needed doing. He spent the morning using his axe to split rails from the logs Tom had procured. They would use the rails to mend a section of fence that was falling into disrepair. It felt good to work at this, allowing his muscles to stretch and burn and to build up a sweat. Life at the palace did not lend itself much to good, honest tasks like chopping wood and splitting rails. He wondered how Snow would manage, being put to work here for the day, and if she would end up regretting her offer of help.

Yet every time he caught sight of her- feeding the chickens, or wheeling a barrow of soiled straw bedding from the barn, she looked immensely pleased with herself and with life in general. He caught her grin as she passed him and returned it, shaking his head as he brought the axe down in another smooth stroke. She never ceased to amaze him.

The sun continued to shine, and by mid-morning the temperature had risen dramatically. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back as he worked, soaking his borrowed shirt. When Snow joined them, lugging a bucket of cool water from the well, he was glad enough to take a break and have a drink. The first ladleful of water he poured into his mouth; the second he poured over his head, letting it wash the sweat from his brow and cool his skin.

"Thank you." He told her.

"You're welcome. Walk with me for a moment?" she asked. He turned to glance at Thom, who waved him on with an indulgent grin and a twinkle in his eye.

"There's a lovely view of the valley on over on the far side of the barn." The older man advised. "Always a popular spot for a stroll."

Snow thanked him, and they set off across the yard. A minute or so later, they rounded the corner of the barn, and he caught Thom's meaning. The view of the valley was much the same here as it was everywhere else on the farm. The major difference here was that this spot was one of the few places where there was no sightline to the cottage. A popular spot for strolling indeed. No wonder there had been such a glint in the old man's eye.

"So have you gotten enough of a taste of what it is to be a hardworking citizen of your kingdom, Milady?" He tugged playfully at the edge of the kerchief that covered her hair, causing her hand to fly up to keep it in place. She scowled playfully at him and batted his hand away.

"We're making candles." She informed him. "Bayberry ones. It's very hot work." She fanned at her face. "We've been boiling the berries, and in a few minutes we'll be able to skim off the wax and begin dipping the candles themselves. It's absolutely fascinating." Her eyes shone with a childlike exuberance.

"I'm surprised that you were able to spare the time to bring us water and to visit. It sounds very consuming," he teased.

"Well," she said almost shyly, "There was something I wanted to give you." She had drawn closer to him.

"And what is that?" he asked.

"This," She murmured, and suddenly she was up on her toes, leaning against him and pressing her lips to his. Now it was he that was consumed. Her lips moved against his, supple and inviting, and he had no thought but to return the kiss. A hunger was building inside him, and much as he tried to control it, he still brought an arm up to encircle her waist and pull her tighter to him. The homespun cloth of the borrowed skirt and shapeless tunic was rough beneath his fingers. Beneath them though, the softness of her waist and of her bosom pressed against his chest was delightfully female.

And then she was gone, stepped away with a teasing grin and a toss of her head. "Also, Ida says to tell you that the mid-day meal will be in about an hour, and that you and Thom should both remember to wash up for it. And with that, she slipped around the corner of the barn, making her way back to the cottage and her candle-making.

"Minx." He muttered affectionately as he straightened his clothing and did the same.

Lunch was a simple affair, with more of the brown bread from the night before paired with sheep's milk cheese and a delicious apple chutney. They ate their fill, then returned to work. By the time the light was fading and they trooped inside for the evening meal of salt pork, boiled potatoes, fresh beans, and the last of the bread, a great deal had been accomplished. The fence had been repaired, the flock had been crutched, the hinge on the barn door had been repaired, and a stock of candles hung on pegs beside the door to set. He was exhausted, and he could tell that Snow was hardly able to keep her eyes open over dinner, but he was also pleased.

This exhaustion was the good kind, born of hard work and accomplishment, and he was glad of it. His tired muscles might protest the notion, but he also knew that he would have no trouble falling asleep tonight, which was a good thing because otherwise he might lay awake for hours torturing himself by trying to figure out what was going on between himself and the Queen. He would have to think on it at some point, but not this night. If he were to be entirely selfish, he would not try to figure it out for several days yet, as thinking rationally about this would be the surest way to end it.

These days, when he could pretend that what was between them was bitterly impossible were like the sweetest dream- and Lord help him, he did not want this dream to end.


	9. The Road Less Traveled

In the morning, they donned their own clothes, shared another breakfast of honeyed porridge with Thom and Ida, and set out on their journey again. Their saddlebags were laden down with the gifts that their hosts pressed upon them- a loaf of bread and some apples, along with a small collection of the candles that Snow and Ida had made. They tried to refuse the gifts, feeling guilty for taking even this much more from those who had so little, but Thom and Ida insisted, and it had finally seemed better to acquiesce than to protest further.

They did not have far to go, as they only intended to reach the nearest river village on the day's ride. Because of this, and because the sun was already beating down with a ferocity that suggested the day's temperature would rise to an unseasonable just-below-sweltering, Eric elected to forgo the more direct road and take the alternate track which arced to the east and quickly entered into the shaded shelter of a small wood halfway up the hill. That route promised to add an extra couple of hours to their journey, but he thought the increased level of comfort would be well worth it.

The trees that they rode under were tall, with cool green leaves that fanned above them, providing a shade dappled with spots of sunlight that danced whenever a small breeze shifted the branches. The gap of several miles between this wood and the Dark Forest seemed to have been enough to stop the spread of the blight, as all of the trees they passed seemed healthy and unaffected.

Despite the shade, the air grew hotter as the sun beat down overhead. It was already warmer than the day before, as though summer were putting on final, valiant display of its own prowess before fading away toward autumn. His coat had already been stowed away with the rest of the packs. Now, as a concession to the heat, he shrugged off his vest as they rode, securing it with the strap of his saddle bag. Several minute later, Snow called a brief halt so that she could do the same, shedding her outer tunic so that her arms were left bare by the leather bodice and sleeveless shift she wore beneath. The look was nothing short of scandalous, particularly for a Queen, but as they were unlikely to meet anyone along this road, he said nothing on the matter. His silence certainly had nothing to do with his own personal enjoyment of the sight, nor with irritated look he knew she would send him if he did say something. It was merely the most practical option, or so he justified the decision to himself.

In any case, whatever he might have said would likely have been thrown back at him with a series of unanswerable questions about why a woman should have to suffer discomfort for the sake of propriety when a man did not. He was no better equipped to handle those questions now than he had been when Sara and his sister-in-law had fired them at him years ago, nor when one particularly confident tavern wench had posed similar questions to him when he paid to bed her. If he was not prepared to argue the justifications for inequality of the sexes to his wife or even to a whore, he was not about to attempt to argue them with a Queen.

They stopped to rest the horses around midday, as the sun reached its zenith. Once they were a little way off the road, he realized that he could hear the sound of running water nearby and felt the urge to investigate. He justified it with the thought that it would be good to refill their waterskins and splash some water on their faces. Satisfied that the area was safe enough for the time being, he set off, instructing Snow to stay with the horses and unpack some of the food from the saddle bags while he explored.

The stream was not difficult to find. It was only a couple of minutes before he reached the place where the trees ended at its banks, leaving the sun to sparkle on its surface. For most of its length, it was narrow enough to be crossed in two strides and shallow enough that the water would rise no higher than one's knees. Ahead of him, though, the stream widened into a deeper pool, perhaps a dozen feet across, and ringed with wide, flat rocks. The water flowed in from a ledge about three feet above the surface, creating a miniature waterfall that was the source of the sound he had heard.

As he moved closer, he startled a heron wading along the opposite bank and watched as it took to the air, flapping its vast wings. He knelt to fill the waterskins, then cupped his hands and splashed the captured water on his face. It was cool, and immensely refreshing. The idea of jumping in to bathe fully crossed his mind, and he was sorely tempted. He had washed his hands and face in the basin at the farmhouse, but the combination of days on the road and work in the heat had left him feeling somewhat less than fresh. A quick dip in the water would go a long way toward correcting that.

Glancing around quickly, he made a decision and began unlacing his leather trousers. He shucked them off, along with his boots and left them laid out on the bank, followed a moment later by the shirt he yanked off over his head. He felt a flash of guilt for leaving Snow alone with the horses for a few minutes more, but reasoned that if she wanted a chance to bathe when he returned, he could watch their mounts in turn. Having thus reassured himself, he waded into the water until it reached his waist, then dove smoothly beneath the shining surface. He emerged a long moment later, shaking the water from his hair and giving a quiet sigh of happiness at the feel of the cool water on his heated flesh. He scooped a handful of sand and used it to scrub at his skin, scouring away the last vestiges of sweat and dirt, then ducked beneath the surface again to wash the sand away.

Beneath the water, the world was cool and silent, with only the sound of the running water echoing faintly in his ears. The birdsongs and rustling of branches were gone when he was submerged. It felt as though time slowed and ceased to pass for several seconds, until he placed his feet firmly on the ground again and stood, returning to the world of light and sound while water sluiced from the ends of his hair and lapped lazily around his waist.

The peace was shattered a moment later when he heard the soft snort of a horse further down the stream. He tensed and began to turn toward the sound, rapidly calculating his options, which were few. His knives and axes lay on the bank behind him with most of his clothing- they would do him little good there, and he cursed himself for being so careless and trusting. He began to come up with ways that he might try to talk himself out of whatever situation might emerge, and prayed that whoever this was had not already discovered the Queen. Even if they did not know who she was, the prospects for a woman discovered alone on the road were not good. It might even be worse if they thought her a normal girl. Any man, no matter how despicable, might hesitate at killing or raping a Queen, swayed by the prospect of ransom and riches. A normal girl had no such advantage.

Suddenly, something wet and viscous hit him squarely in the back. His hand went to it automatically, and he realized that it was nothing but wet sand that had been flung at him with fantastic aim. What sort of attacker would fling sand, he puzzled even as he turned toward the bank.

Snow had grown restless waiting with the horses. After several minutes, she made up her mind, shoved the apples and bread back into her saddle bag, and grabbed the horses reins, leading them both through the trees in the direction Eric had gone.

She stepped out of the forest along the stream at almost the exact same point that Eric had. She didn't see him at first, but then noticed his clothing spread out on the bank. Either he had run afoul of a very peculiar bandit, or he had decided to shed his clothes for an afternoon swim. The idea appealed to her, as well, so she looped the reins over a low branch to keep the horses from wandering and began to make her way over to the bank where the Huntsman's belongings lay.

She had nearly reached them when he resurfaced, and she was compelled to stop and watch him. He was facing away from her, but there was still plenty to be appreciative of. The water coursed over him, turning his hair dark and running in rivulets down his torso. His body was sculpted from years of hard work and rough living, the corded muscles in his arms and of his back rippling as he scrubbed at himself with sand from the stream bed. The sunlight glinted off the curve of those muscles, and highlighted the way the water dripping from his hair ran down his spine to the narrower point of his waist before disappearing beneath the white cloth of his linen underbreeches . She supposed he had left them on for modesty's sake, but they did little to conceal the swell of flesh and muscle beneath, clinging to him like a second skin and accentuating the toned perfection of his body. She was riveted by the sight, and by the flush of longing that she experienced for him.

He had not seen her yet, and she was struck by a mischievous idea. Grinning in anticipation, she crept the rest of the distance to the bank, careful not to rustle the grasses or step on any stray twigs that would announce her presence. Silently, she eased out of her own boots and leggings, leaving them beside his, and unlaced the leather bodice she wore for support, leaving only her shift. She crouched, watching him and waiting for her opportunity.

When he ducked back under the water, she scrambled to the edge of the pool and waded in, letting the cool water rush over her toes. She plunged her hand into the water as well and pulled up a handful of wet sand. Her Huntsman broke the surface in a rush, sending little waves lapping toward the shore. He tensed suddenly, and started to turn- hastily, she fired her missile, which landed with a satisfying _plop_ in the middle of his back. She began to laugh, the sound of it echoing over the water. The expression on his face when he did turn and catch sight of her was beyond description, a mix of shock and fury and startled amusement that only caused her to laugh harder.

When he turned and saw Snow standing there in the shallows, with her shift dancing about her knees and the peals of her laughter ringing out across the stream, he was at once furious and relieved.

"I thought I told you to stay with the horses." He growled, stalking toward her as quickly as the water allowed.

"I did!" she tried in vain not to smile, pointing to where she had left the beasts secured to the tree. Her mount lifted its head to look at them mildly, then returned to grazing unconcernedly, completely disinterested in the activities of the humans.

"That's not at all what I meant, and you know it," he reproached her. An internal debate seemed to be raging in him, until suddenly he scooped her up bodily and turned to head back into the water.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, squirming in his arms "What are you doing?"

"I am teaching you a lesson, Milady," he told her with a false calm, "Which is that when I tell you to stay with the horses, or give you other instructions of the kind, I am doing so because I am concerned for your safety, not because it occurs to me that you should do the opposite. You seem to need the idea driven home." So saying, he let her go, letting her plunge into the cool water with a shriek. He hauled her back up, supporting her until she regained her footing.

"Do you know how terrified I was when I heard that horse?" He demanded of her, gripping her roughly by the upper arm, almost shaking her in his fury. "Do you know the thoughts that went through my head? That someone was threatening your safety, that they might discover you, and hurt you, or take you with them for their profit or pleasure?" He could not hold back the anguish that was creeping into his voice. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, shaking his head. "I thought… I thought I might have lost you."

"But you didn't," she murmured earnestly. "I'm right here." And then she was sliding her hand up to his neck, drawing him down to her until her lips pressed reassuringly against his. The relief that she was safe, that he had not failed her, that she was here, alive and well in his arms was too much. It was as though a dam inside him cracked, and all the emotion he had for her came surging out. He poured all of it, the rawness and the desperation and hunger into the kiss, seizing her lips with his own and pulling her to him.

He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her close and let the other tangle into her wet hair, tilting her head up so he could plunder her mouth. It was as though he were a drowning man, and her lips were the air he needed to breathe. He teased at her lower lip with his tongue; her lips parted, and dove into her. She cried out with a sound that was half gasp and half moan, a sound that set his blood afire.

She clung to him, the scrap of a shift she wore wet and crumpled against his skin. Her hand skated over his arm, her fingers digging into his bicep as she tried to pull herself even closer, to press their bodies together. Her mouth opened for him, and she kissed him back with just as much fury and desperation, urging him for more.

She tasted of honey, and of salvation. His mind was fogged with the feeling of her against him and the smoothness of her perfect skin under his fingers. He had dreamed of her a thousand times and chased the wisps of dream away when he woke, hoping to chase the temptation with it, but he had never envisioned this, clinging together in the middle of a woodland stream, bodies wet and slippery with the water, throwing caution to the wind without a care.

Desire burned dangerously within him, and he knew, as he had known every time before that they should stop. That they _had_ to stop. But he was not ready to heed that voice of reason.

Instead, he lifted her from the water with one strong arm. She wrapped her legs around his waist tightly, pressing against him provocatively and causing him to let out a strangled moan. His hand skimmed her thigh, left bare where her shift had ridden up, and he reveled in the audacity of it.

He carried her to the nearest rock, which jutted out of the water at a low angle. She pressed against him with every step, torture and perfection at once. He laid her on the rock, crowded her against it with his body, careful not to crush her. He let his lips move from hers to wander, pressing kisses along her neck to her collarbone and laving the hollow there with his tongue, collecting the droplets of water that had pooled there and drinking them down. She arched against him and he had to close his eyes, willing that he not make a fool of himself. Her hands traced over his arms, across his chest, then down his sides, skimming over the taught muscles of his abdomen and the dip that started at the curve of his hip, causing him to utter his silent prayer again.

He brought his lips to hers again, kissing her more slowly this time, but thoroughly, as though he could touch her soul. His hands moved over her shift, teasing, careful even now not to take liberties by touching her breasts, tantalizing though they were now that he could see her nipples tightened with arousal and the shadow of her areolae through the white fabric made sheer by the water. It was she who made that move, taking his hand and moving it to cup her breast, granting him a permission he had not even dared to ask. He brushed his thumb hesitantly over the tightened bud and was rewarded with a shiver of pleasure from her. She was innocent but aware, and he found the combination oddly arousing. She met his eyes boldly, looking up at him with absolute trust.

"I won't ask you to stop," she whispered, echoing the words she had uttered the night after her coronation. It was those words that caused him to step back and realize what they were doing, where this might have headed.

"That is why I must." He said gravely, attempting to regain control of his libido. The task was complicated by the fact that he could not help but kiss her again, even after making his pronouncement.

"Why?" she demanded, clearly frustrated.

"Because I am not a monster." He explained, shifting so that he sat beside her rather than pinning her to the rock. "I am not the sort of man to take something so valuable from a woman on a rock in the middle of a stream where any passerby can stumble upon the act." He shook his head, his voice softening. "The first time should be done properly, privately, preferably in a bed, where proper time can be taken so that it isn't rushed and hurried. And," he admitted uncomfortably, "It is preferable also that it be the sacred consummation between man and wife. There is a deeper meaning to it then."

She nodded slowly, but he did not think she agreed with him. Nonetheless, he slid back into the water, holding out his hand.

"Come. I can carry you to shore," he offered. She shook her head.

"I can walk," she said quietly, sliding into the water with quiet dignity and heading for the bank where they had abandoned their clothes. With a sigh he followed her, snatching up his clothes and striding into the trees to change. He had a nagging feeling that this would not be the end of the conversation.


	10. Aftermath

William raised his head sharply at the sound of footsteps echoing in the torch-lit corridor.

"Well?" he demanded of the soldier who appeared in the doorway. Thomas, he recalled. Captain Iver Thomas. "What news?" The man shook his head sadly.

"No news, Milord. The last party has just returned from Tarrowhall. No one has seen her, Milord, nor the Lord Huntsman either. They haven't passed through any of the towns or villages along the coast."

William reached for the iron paperweight on the table, rolling it from hand to hand as he paced. "Then she must have gone inland." He concluded.

"Aye sir." The soldier nodded.

"Into the Dark Forest." His tone was matter-of-fact. There was a beat of troubled silence before the man nodded again.

"Aye."

William nodded slowly, almost to himself. Then he looked to the captain.

"Arrange your men into teams of ten," he ordered brusquely. "We are going after her."

The other man looked unhappy, but he nodded anyway. It seemed the only thing he did with any confidence.

"How many teams would you like me to assemble, Milord?" he asked dutifully. William considered this.

"Twenty might suffice." The captain's eyes widened dramatically, giving him the somewhat unfortunate appearance of a frog.

"T-twenty?" he stammered, trying unsuccessfully to contain his shock. "That's two hundred men, sir! Nearly half our garrison. To send that many away would be to leave the castle dangerously under-defended."

"And what good is a castle without a queen?" William demanded furiously, his voice rising to crash over the soldier, who reeled back a bit at the sudden onslaught. "I would have every knight, soldier, and stable boy in the kingdom ride out after her if I thought it would help! Two hundred men is nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! See that it is done!" He was still seething as the Captain bowed hastily and made his way to the door.

A moment passed in silence before his Father, who had remained silent through the exchange, decided to speak.

"A bold decision, son. They cannot help but find her. But you should remain here," the Duke advised, "Not ride out with the men. There is greater need of you in the castle."

"You would have me leave her out there?" William turned to him. "Forgive me Father, but I will not abandon her as you did so many years ago. It has been _four days_ since she was last seen. This search grows ever more desperate- I will not stand idly by while others search for her. I cannot."

"And what of the letter she left?" the older man queried. William's eyes narrowed.

"I thought you did not trust the letter."

"I do not. It is too strange to be coincidence that the Queen disappears the very night that the Lord Huntsman, who is of no noble birth and yet who has still managed to acquire a title and so much more from the Queen, vanishes as well." The older man shook his head. "Ravenna sent him to bring her Snow White once before, and there is no guarantee that he does not still intend to carry out his task." He looked grim. "Not all of Ravenna's supporters have been apprehended. He could have tricked her, or forced her to write the note and taken her to one of them. Any supporter of Ravenna's would pay handsomely for her."

"Which is why we must find her! Every second we delay may put her in more peril!" William exclaimed. Even as he said it though, he had his doubts. The Huntsman irritated him to no end, but he had fought alongside the man. They had little enough in common beyond an affinity of killing things in battle, but what they did agree on was the fact that they would each die to protect Snow. The Queen. He did not think it likely the man would kidnap her to sell her to a hostile ruler.

He had other concerns though. He was all too familiar with the way the Huntsman looked at her. He felt the echo of it in his own gaze when he looked upon the Queen. The man wanted her, he could see it. And if they were alone in the forest together, without anyone else to stand between them… the thought of what the Huntsman might do to her made his blood boil. They must be found. Immediately.

"But what if the letter is of her own hand?" the Duke countered, unaware of his son's thoughts. "She tells us that there is no need to search for her, and leaves the running of the Kingdom jointly in our hands while she is away. If that is her wish, and you abandon the castle to search for her, she will be most displeased when she returns. You risk everything then- not just her ire, but your standing and esteem in her eyes. What's more, if you are not the one who finds her, then it will be many days before news of her return reaches you, and longer still before you are returned yourself."

This logic of this finally appealed to William's sense of reason, and he slumped into the nearest chair.

"Fine." He bit out. "I will stay." He glared sulkily at his father. "But I will lead a daily foray of the land around the castle in case she is able to return. I cannot stand idly by."

"I am not asking you to, Son." The Duke said. The last thing he needed was his boy running out on yet another foolhardy quest to find the missing Queen. Better that he stayed here, safe, no matter how sullen he appeared.

William stared into the flame of the nearest candle. He would heed his Father's wisdom. But if the Huntsman had harmed his Snow White in any way, no power on heaven or earth would protect the man from his wrath.

The heat built throughout the day, sapping the life from everything. Eric felt an odd kinship with the wilting plants that they passed- he too felt like he was drooping under the intensity of the sun. In no time at all the refreshing coolness of the stream was a distant memory, although the same could not be said for the memory of what had happened in that stream. The heat was made more oppressive due to the fact that they had ridden in silence since the incident. Normally, there was an easy ebb and flow of words between them- her pointing out things that she found beautiful or curious or enthralling, and he taking opportunities to show her things that would help her to survive in the wild, from medicinal plants to yellow Locstoc berries, a handful of which were enough to kill a grown man. When they had lapsed into silence, it had been companionable and pleasant. Peaceful, even.

This had not been the case for the past several hours, however. This silence teemed with words left unsaid and had a deep, sullen quality to it. Neither one of them attempted to break it, each stewing in their own thoughts. He cursed himself for his rash behavior and lack of thought, and cursed her for managing to make him lose the control he had clung so tightly to. For the Queen's part, she remained aloof, settling her features into a cool, emotionless mask. He knew, of course, that it was a ruse. A glimpse in her eyes would reveal a gathering storm, if you knew how to read her. He did, which was why he did not glance back at her often. He did not want to see what was brewing behind those jade green eyes any more than he wanted to acknowledge that what was between them felt like it was cooling and cracking. Shattering the silence with speech felt like it might also shatter something else, something irreparable. He could not abide that thought, so silence seemed the safer, albeit more cowardly option.

As they drew closer to the town, he began to sense that Snow was behaving more cheerfully. She urged her horse up along his so that they were riding nearly side by side, and even offered him a shy hint of a smile. That little quirk of her lips made his spirits lift immensely.

The track they were on joined with the main road perhaps a mile outside of town, and they began to see other people passing by on foot or with carts pulled by oxen and mules. Another rider on horseback passed them, tipping his hat jovially as he trotted past. It wasn't long before farmland gave way to houses, which crowded closer and closer together as they reached the heart of the town. Most of the buildings were made with wood, and all had thatched roofs, but a few were half-timbered, the gaps between their wooden frames filled with white plaster. The road they traveled over was not cobbled like the streets of Tabor outside the castle walls, but rather dirt, churned muddy with the recent rain and only now beginning to dry in the heat and sun.

The streets grew more congested with livestock, carts, and people weaving about on foot. Riverton bustled more than Tabor. Its citizens did not look so desperate and near-starved either, although one could scarcely call them well-fed. There was a clamor in the air as they neared the marketplace in the center of town where the townsfolk went about their business, hawking wares, livestock, and produce. He caught her staring in wonder at the sights about them as they rode through the town. Suddenly though, she reined her horse in, coming to a stop at the side of the street. He wheeled around to return to her, thinking that something was wrong. Instead, he saw what had made her pause. A little beggar boy, not more than eight or nine was huddled in an alcove between two close buildings. The Queen had spotted him somehow, and stopped. Now she rummaged through her saddlebag, coming up at last with the two apples that Thom and Ida had pressed upon them. Holding them up, she beckoned to the boy, who crept out of his shaded hidey-hole warily. As he moved, Eric realized that there was another figure behind him. It was a little blonde girl, no more than five, who had been crouched behind her brother. How Snow had seen them both in the shadows baffled him, but he had not protest as she handed the apples to the boy.

"What's your name?" she asked kindly.

The child regarded her skeptically. "Alorec." He told her finally.

She nodded. "That's a very strong name. Alorec." The child seemed to warm to her a bit. "I tell you what, Alorec," she continued, "I need some help. You see, we're looking for a place to spend the night in Riverton, and I could use someone to tell be where the best inn or tavern is. I've a loaf of bread for anyone that can point me in the right direction." The boy, tow-headed despite the layer of filth in his hair, apparently decided he liked her.

"There's the Old Dun Cow, down by the river docks," he offered, "But you don' wanna go there. It smells, an' it's full of soldiers an' the food inna very good. Look for the Wayfinder Inn instead. It's two streets off the river, but much better."

"Thank you, Alorec." She beamed at him. No man could withstand that smile, and the beggar boy was no exception. His mouth spread in a gap-toothed grin as she pulled the bread out of her bag as well, handing it to the child. "What's your sister's name?" she asked, nodding to where the girl still hovered in the shadows.

"Marcie." He responded. Snow nodded.

"Well, tell Marcie hello for me, and make sure she gets a bit of that bread to eat." The boy nodded solemnly, and even stayed to wave at her as she nudged her mount into motion again.

"That was well done." He told her quietly when they had gone a short distance.

"It was the right thing to do," she said simply.

"I don't mean just the food," he told her patiently. "I mean the way you talked to him, like he matters and is important. The way you made him feel that the gift wasn't charity." She looked surprised.

"He does matter," she protested.

"Not to everyone." Eric shook his head. "Not even to most. That's what sets you apart. And that you took the time to talk to him, rather than just tossing him food or farthing and riding on. That matters too."

It did not take long to reach the Wayfinder. It was a tall building, at least three stories, and situated atop a tiny hill. Most of its half-timbered walls were cast in the early-evening shadows, but the very top of the building still caught the rays of the sun.

Inside, the air was cool if somewhat stale, smelling of old ale. The floor was sticky from spills, but the tables and rough stools looked clean enough, and the bar in the corner shone even in the weak light that filtered in through the windows. A few patrons were scattered around the taproom, nursing pints in pewter tankards, but it was too early yet to draw a large crowd. In another hour or two, there likely wouldn't be room to move without jarring elbows with someone, but for now it was relatively quiet.

A tall man with hair the color of flame who seemed to be the proprietor stood behind the bar, polishing it still further with a clean cloth. He flipped the cloth over his shoulder as Eric approached, and braced his massive arms against the bar.

"What can I get you?" he asked easily. There was something about him that Eric liked immediately.

"I need a room for myself and the lady. Private, and without much traffic."

"Your wife?" the red-haired man asked with mild interest, glancing to where Snow still hovered near the door, keeping an eye on the horses hitched outside.

"My charge." He corrected, lies twisting with truths as he spoke. "I'm her bodyguard. Been hired to make sure the lass is brought safely to her Uncle in Whitstable." He purposely named a town some distance to the east, knowing that they intended to head north when they set out again. The red-haired man nodded.

"We're far from full up, so I can put you on the third floor for the night. Not likely there'll be enough lodgers tonight to warrant many up on the top floor. Should be peaceful, at least. Only problem is that the rooms up there have just the one bed, and not even enough room for a cot." He shrugged apologetically. "I can give you an extra bedroll, but you'll be left to sleep on the floor."

Eric shrugged. "I'm accustomed to it." He dug into the pouch Snow had handed him for the silver to pay for the room, laying it on the bar. The tall man whisked it away in a deceptively graceful movement, almost as soon as it was laid. It made Eric wonder what he had done before becoming an innkeep. Might be had had fought in the wars, but he didn't seem just any common soldier.

"Top of the stairs, and third room on the left." He told Eric. "There's a latch on the inside of the door." He flagged down a slender black-haired youth who had just stepped behind the bar. "Barth can help you with your bags, and see to your horses if you have any. If you have need of anything, just ask for Kane." He said, gesturing to himself.

"I'll do that." Eric promised, stepping away from the bar.

True to Barth's word, he helped them carry their bags up the narrow flights of wooden stairs to their room. More accurately, he carried Snow's bags for her, leaving Eric to handle his own, which was perfectly fine. He would have felt ridiculous having a boy only a few years his junior perform a task that he was perfectly capable of doing himself. The boy showed them to the room, deposited Snow's belongings on the bed, and ducked out to see to the horses, blushing a bit whenever he looked at her. He shut the door behind him, and suddenly they were alone in the little room. It felt much different from being alone in the forest, or at the farmhouse or even at the castle. In any of those places they might be interrupted by another person but here… here they were sequestered, separate from the world, and unlikely to be disturbed. Eric began to wonder if perhaps he should have asked for separate rooms after all, no matter how much more difficult it would make it to guard her. She turned to him, just as much aware of the tension that had begun to creep up between them again as he was.

"About earlier…" she began.

"So we're going to talk about it then."

"How can you do that?" she asked in annoyance. "Ignore everything between us, I mean."

"I'm not ignoring it."

"No, you're just refusing to acknowledge it," she countered.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, trying to tamp down the irritation he felt rising within him.

"I would have you admit that there is something between us! That there is a reason for this dance we have been doing since the day you decided to recuse me," she exploded.

"And what good would that be?" he challenged her. "Other than to put us closer to acting upon the desires we have, which is the one thing we cannot do!"

"Why can't we?"

"Because you are the _Queen_!" he said heatedly.

"Exactly." She shot back. "I _am_ the Queen, and a woman grown. I can make up my own mind about what actions I take."

"And what of the future?" Eric demanded. "When you marry some lord, or the second son of another Kingdom to seal an alliance and your new husband discovers that he is not the first to have you? That you gave yourself to a man who with worth very little in this world rather than wait? And what if that marriage treaty were all that kept Tabor from war, or famine, or defeat in battle? Can you not see that this is the way it must be? That it is better for us to restrain ourselves, no matter how difficult it seems?" he implored. She clenched her jaw.

"How can it be better?" she asked, and he detected a note of weariness in her tone. "To wait, and save myself for a nameless, faceless man that I have not met and for whom I feel nothing? When _you_ are the man I care for, and you stand before me now? Why are you so intent to place this specter's interests above your own?" She stepped closer to him. "I would have the truth from you, Huntsman. You balk at the notion of acting my betrothed, you turn from my touch and hold yourself apart from me. If you truly do not feel for me what I feel for you, then I must accept that. But do not pretend with me." She laid her hand atop his crossed arm.

"We are not in the middle of a stream, Eric." She said softly. "We are alone in this room with a bed not three paces away. I believe that you desire me as I desire you. You told me as much, once. I beg you now, if you love me, to act upon those feelings. Teach me what it is to have a lover, to _be_ a lover. All I want…is you."

He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. It would be so easy to do it, to kiss her again slowly, sensuously, pouring everything he felt into it. So easy to take her in his arms and tumble them into the bed, to undress her fully and witness her laid out before him for the taking. He would take the time to explore her first, to find the ways to touch her that would make her shiver and cry out with pleasure. And when he finally did take her, after he had tortured them both by holding back for so long, he would be infinitely gentle so that she recalled the pleasure of the coupling rather than the pain.

It would take so little. She was right here, within his grasp, reaching for him, begging this of him. He _wanted_ not to refuse her. What's more, the thought of any other man having her in the ways he imagined, inevitable though it was, reviled him.

But he had also made a vow, and he was a man of his word. He would not break that vow to protect her, even if it meant protecting her from himself. No matter how much they both desired it, he would not be the cause of her disgrace. Not even if it meant having her believe that he did not want this, did not yearn for her. She might come to despise him for it, but that was the consequence paid for letting things go so far, for letting himself forget, even for a second, that she was a Queen and he had been born nothing more than a commoner. He might be a lord now, but in name only. William had pegged him correctly- a stray dog masquerading as a nobleman, like some mummer's farce.

He could not look at her. If he did, he might not have the strength to refuse her. He knew that her lips were mere inches away, and that made it all the harder to suffer through the words he was forced to utter.

"I cannot, Milady." He felt her step away from him and knew beyond doubt that she was hurt by his refusal.

"I understand," she murmured. But of course, she did not. He wanted to speak, to tell her something that would lessen her pain, but his tongue was like lead in his mouth and he could not find the words. He stood helplessly instead, noting how close the room suddenly seemed. She kept her back to him, fumbling for something in her bag with fierce, jerky movements. It occurred to him that she was not only hurt, but angry as well. She had the right, of course. She seemed to feel the same way, because she whirled to face him suddenly, eyes flashing.

"Why?" she demanded, and it seemed she might be fighting back tears. "Why did you lead me on? Why kiss me like you did this morning, why treat me kindly and make me depend on you, and think that you're the only person in the whole kingdom who can understand me? Why tell me that you would worship every part of me if you meant _none_ of it?"

It stung to have his actions and words flung back in his face, and it raised his ire to point of ignition.

"Because I am weak," he confessed bitterly, "and it is because of this that I have told you things, and wished for things that cannot happen, and done things that I should not have done. But there is a line- a limit that I will not cross." Almost without realizing it, he had backed her up against the plastered wall. She stared back at him defiantly, and damned if he wasn't _still_ tempted to crush his lips to hers and let the sparks of rage kindle an entirely different type of fire. Her eyes clearly issued a challenge, and there was an edge of darkness in them that he had not seen there before.

"I could command it of you." She threatened, her voice so low that it was barely audible. He understood her well enough though, and his expression darkened.

"You could." He told her tightly, bracing his arm against the wall above her head, intentionally invading her space. "You _are_ the Queen. And if you ordered me into your bed, it would become my duty. But do not mistake me. I could not hold love in my heart for a woman who would force me to do such a thing. And I would never forgive you for what it would make me become. So think long and hard about uttering that command, Your Highness." He shoved away from her, his anger plain enough to see. "I would have expected that from the last Queen of this realm, but never from you." With that last parting shot, he wrenched the door open and stormed out.

Snow slid to the ground in a heap, the strength going out of her limbs. She was shocked and appalled at herself, at what she had suggested, and horrified at the reaction she had caused. "I wouldn't," she whispered aloud to the room. "I couldn't." But he was not there to hear. It wasn't until she felt the splashes on her hand that she even registered that she was crying. Then, her tears began to fall in earnest. She leaned her head against the wall and sobbed, curling in on herself and wondering what evil within her had ever possessed her to say it at all.

Downstairs, the Huntsman clamored down the last of the stairs and headed straight for the bar. He caught sight of Kane and lifted two fingers to him in a drunkard's salute as he slid on the weathered barstool. The big flame-haired man finished the beer he had been pouring, handed it to the customer before him smoothly, and made his way to Eric's end of the bar.

"What can I get you?" he asked. Eric didn't hesitate.

"Whiskey."

Kane nodded and snagged a glass from behind him and the bottle from beneath the bar. He poured a liberal amount of amber liquid into the glass. Eric took it, raised it in a half-hearted toast, and swallowed the lot of it in one burning gulp. Kane raised his eyebrows, then uncorked the bottle and splashed more whiskey into the glass.

"Second one's on the house, mate." He remarked. "You look like you need it."

Eric contemplated the glass in his hand.

"You have no idea."


	11. But You Can't Stay Here

Eric had had faced enough days through the fluid haze of intoxication to know that while the first drink might chase away his demons, the fifth would only multiply them. He didn't relish the idea of stumbling drunkenly up the stairs at the end of the night, nor did he desire the throbbing temples and muddled head that the morning would bring if he kept up his pace, so after the fourth whiskey, he switched to ale.

He nursed it slowly, watching as the tavern filled and the low hum of voices rose to a steady buzz that thrummed through the place. After darkness fell and the lanterns were lit, a couple of men shoved in through the door and threaded their way through the crowd to stand along the long step before the window. One waved his hand to Kane, and the broad-shouldered man returned the gesture cheerfully.

Thus encouraged, the lean, gangly man broke into a wide grin and reached into the bag he carried for a bodrahn drum. A moment later the other lads with him pulled out a tin whistle, a box fiddle, and a set of wooden bones. The drummer laid out a rolling beat and was joined a moment later by the fiddle player drawing his box over the strings. Within seconds, the taproom was filled with the wild and raucous strains of music as the men moved from the jig into a series of bawdy songs, from _Three Drunken Maidens_ to _The Lusty Young Smith_.

A few of the verses differed slightly from what he was familiar with, but the tunes were the same, and the shouted choruses were similar enough that he was moved on occasion to join in the chant with the rest of the patrons. He could almost forget, in hubbub, the ale, and the music, what an unfortunate turn his relationship with the Queen had taken.

The respite was a needed one. He was tired of fighting her and fighting with her, and all that paled in comparison to how tired he was of fighting himself. A part of him wondered, not for the first time, what worth it was to uphold his moral stance. Few expected it of him, and his stubbornness on the issue was straining his relationship with Snow. Yet that strength of conviction was not something he could lightly put aside. Sick of ruminating on his woes, he turned back to the bar and ordered another tankard of ale. He watched over the rim as several patrons shoved their tables back to create room to dance, stomping feet and swinging around in time to the music. Despite himself, he felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth in response to the spectacle. It was why he didn't notice immediately that something was wrong.

Snow woke from her cramped position curled against the wardrobe to find that the room was cloaked in darkness. A very little amount of light filtered up from the braziers burning on the street below, allowing her to see the outline of the room's unfamiliar furnishings. It helped her to get her bearings, to remember where she was, and why she was alone. Why Eric was not with her.

Noise trickled up from the tavern below- the strains of music, along with chuckles of laughter and the hum of singing. There was also the fain scent of cooking food that made her stomach rumble. It had been several hours since she had last eaten. It must also have been several hours since Eric had left. She didn't know where he had gone, and she worried that he had not returned to her. Despite what she had said, and how angry it had made him, she hadn't really considered that he would abandon her. He had left his pack on the floor after all, so he intended to return. She would talk to him then, apologize for the ugly thing she had suggested and try to mend what was between them.

Unless… A horrible thought crossed her mind and sent her scrambling across the floorboards, groping in the darkness to make certain that his pack was still there, that he had not returned while she slept exhausted from tears and frustration to truly abandon her. Her fingers closed around a strap of worn leather, and the panic receded, leaving her able to attempt to think rationally again. He had not left, but he was not here, which left two possibilities. Either he was still out there, angry with her and unwilling to return, for which she could hardly blame him, or he had run into trouble of some sort and been detained. She didn't want to think too closely on what meaning "detained" could have.

She stood and straightened her tunic, then combed her hair back from her face and squared her shoulders. She was hungry, and did not relish the thought of remaining locked away in a small room at the top of a building as the night grew deeper. Quite apart from being the monarch of this realm, she needed no one's permission to make her way down to the taproom, purchase a meat pie, and listen to the music. Eric would not like the fact that she went without an escort to watch her back, but then he was the one who had left in a rage, not she, and she was not about to sit quietly in a room dependent and waiting for a man to come back and protect her. She had spent too much time waiting already.

Her resolve faltered somewhat when she reached the top of the final set of stairs. The noise level had grown to a dull roar of conversation, music, and singing. There were more people her than she had anticipated, and she slowed her pace, surveying the room as she made her way down the steps. Men were crowded into nearly every available corner, filling all the tables and standing in bunches in them corners and leaning against the walls. Most clutched tankards in their hands. She paused on the bottom step where she still had enough of a vantage point to see above the crowd and scanned the sea of faces on the chance that Eric's might be among them, but none looked familiar. That did not mean that none looked with familiarly, however. A table of rather rough-looking men beside her had noticed her presence, and were nudging each other and nodding at her, making comments that she was thankful she could not hear. The swarthiest of them was looking at her in a way that suggested he was envisioning her without her clothing, and she squirmed a bit. There was a distinct difference between the hint of that desire in her Huntsman's eyes, where it was often mixed with reverence, and the forward, insistent gaze of this stranger. She tried to tell herself that he was her subject, and she should not feel this twist of unease that bordered on revulsion, but she was still eager to move away and distance herself in the crowd.

She turned, but her path was blocked by the press of bodies, and she found that she had nowhere to move. At the same moment, she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder.

"Well what do we have here?" a rough voice ground out as a wash of stale breath assaulted her nostrils. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, little lady? Stay and have a drink with us." She found herself hauled back into the man's grasp. She stumbled, and he took the opportunity to drag her into his lap, trapping her against him with one bear-like arm. This close, he smelled even worse, as though he'd neglected to bathe for a month. She struggled to pull away from him, but he just laughed and tightened his hold.

"She don't look much like a lady, Sloan." put in the pimply-faced young man across the table. "She looks like she forgot she's a girl and got dressed like a man instead." Snow glared at the smirking man, which only caused his grin to widen.

"Oh, she's a girl, alright." Sloan answered. He brought his hand up to her chest and squeezed. "She ain't got much in the way of tits, but she does got 'em!" he declared. Her stomach twisted in revulsion even as she felt her heart begin to pound as rapidly as a rabbit's. She fought harder, trying to twist away from the burly bulk of her captor, but it only made Sloan chortle. "I think she likes me too!" he boasted, "wriggling all over like a little tease." He grabbed her hand, forcing it behind her back and down to press against his trousers. "See what you do to me, girl." he growled in her ear. "You're a right vixen, you are. But you'll learn your place by the time I'm done with you." With that he stood, dragging her with him and muttering something under hid breath about privacy.

Snow could feel a scream building in her throat. Desperately, she tried to come up with a plan, but all she could think to do was get away. Bracing herself for the unpleasantness, she opened her mouth and bit down _hard _on Sloan's arm. She heard him yell in surprise and tasted the coppery tang of blood even as he pulled his arm back. She took advantage of his surprise to wrench free of him, spinning out of his grasp. Her hip collided with the table, causing the tankards of ale to slosh alarmingly. The other men shouted out in indignation, but it gave her an idea. She snatched the nearest tankard and whipped it at Sloan's head. The tankard collided with his chin, splashing ale into his eyes and down his torso, soaking his beard and tunic. He swore, and his eyes took on a murderous gleam.

"You're going to regret that, bitch." he promised, advancing toward her. "I'm going to make you pay." Snow searched frantically for an escape route, a place to duck through the crowd and make it to safety, but they had drawn the attention of the tavern's patrons, and between Sloan's friends attempting to box her in and the way the crowd had gathered around to see what the commotion was about, she was trapped in a circle of human bodies with nowhere to turn.

Eric wasn't sure what it was, but something was troubling him. Some shift in the crowd, some change in tone too subtle to be immediately recognized set his senses on alert and had him setting his drink down on the worn and polished bar. He scanned the room, trying to figure out what it was that seemed off. There was some sort of commotion brewing across the room, near the stairs. A patron getting too handsy with a kitchen girl, most like. Still, he squinted around the press of bodies, oddly disquieted. He saw a tankard go flying, colliding with a witless brute of a man and dousing him with ale, then a flash of long black hair. He was off his stool and shouldering his way through the crowd before he even had time to realize what he was doing. The only thought on his mind was _Snow_, never mind that she should still be safely ensconced in the room where he had left her.

He wanted to be wrong, but he was far from surprised that he wasn't. He could see her as he got closer, backing away from the ale-dripping oaf, her expression as fierce as a hell-cat's even as she found herself trapped between the man and his friends who were about to join the fray. The big man was growling out a promise to make her pay and charging toward her. Eric reacted without thinking, shoving his way past the bystanders and placing himself between the Queen and her attacker. He caught the man's chest with his shoulder, checking his advance and turning his attentions away from Snow. The oaf's lip curled in disbelief that gave way to anger.

"Out of my way!" he roared. Eric stood his ground, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

"So you can pound the lady to a pulp with your bare fists?" he challenged.

"She attacked me!" the oaf protested.

"Aye, I'm sure that's the way of it." Eric said easily, in a tone that suggested that he did not in fact agree at all. "The wee little thing there attacked you out of the blue without the slightest provocation, and you're just about to defend yourself against her, is that it?" The oaf's eyes narrowed. He seemed to suspect that he was being mocked, but was not entirely certain. Determining that the assessment of the situation was requiring too much thought for an inebriated mind, the larger man gave up the struggle and simply swung one meaty fist in a wide arc toward Eric's head. The Huntsman ducked aside, avoiding the blow with ease- though not as much as he would have liked. His mind focused as usual with the prospect of a fight, but he found his reaction time to be considerably dulled by the spirits he had consumed.

He blocked the next punch with his forearm, spinning his opponent off balance and into a nearby table. The man went down, taking the table with him. The watching crowd broke into a chorus of laughter, and Eric watched as the man's face grew redder and redder. He scrambled to his feet, flustered and clearly ignoring any voice of reason that might be suggesting he ought to back away and not continue to pick a fight with a more skilled and sober opponent. Eric shook his head slowly, bracing himself for the combat even as he welcomed it. Fighting was simple- clear, direct, and reliable- everything that his life had ceased to be in recent months. His opponent lunged toward him again, and the contest was on.

They traded blows back and forth, Eric landing far more than he received, although every smash of the bulky man's fist was like being battered by tree trunks. He tasted blood in his mouth where his teeth had cut into his lip when he took a hit to the jaw, and one fist to his midsection had forced him to stumble back for a few seconds, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs, but he was still clearly going to emerge the victor. The other man had a swollen eye, a split lip, and a cut on his brow that was dripping blood into his other eye, causing him to blink frantically; He was also staggering and weaving, barely able to muster himself for another blow. They regarded each other warily across the circle of cleared floor, circling hesitantly. The man's friends were cheering and egging him on with cries of "Pummel him, Sloane!" and " Break his pretty face!" Eric surmised that his opponent was, in fact, Sloane, and decided to test the theory.

"Give it up, Sloane," he warned, "Let it rest, apologize to the lady, and I'll buy you a pint. Don't, and you'll find yourself regretting it." He hoped to appeal to the man's sense of reason, but it was clearly the wrong thing to suggest. Sloane, still glowering spit contemptuously on the floorboards and took a staggering step forward. Behind his shoulder, Eric could see Snow watching earnestly, worrying her bottom lip and trying to ease her way back toward the staircase without attracting unnecessary attention. As he watched, however, another man-probably one of Sloane's party if his sooty, slovenly dress was any indication- snatched her by the wrist, halting her escape.

"Not so fast, girlie." The pimply young man said, although he was probably not even a day over sixteen himself, "You're not going anywhere." Snow's eyes flashed, and Eric couldn't help but pity the boy for what was coming. It was not some helpless, simpering maiden that he had caught, but a warrior queen. While she might not have been able to overtake a hulking brute like Sloane, she was more than enough of a match for the sleight, malnourished inebriate.

Sure enough, she twisted her arm free like he'd shown her, then surprised the boy by stepping closer and driving her elbow into his gut. He doubled over in a mixture of pain and shock, giving her the opportunity to ram her knee between his legs. He fell to the floor, and she stepped neatly away from him. Her gaze snagged upon his as she glanced around, and he nodded his approval. A smile flickered at the corner of her lips, then shifted to an expression of horror.

Belatedly, he realized that he had not been paying close enough attention to Sloane. He looked back now and saw that the man had not only collected himself, but was nearly upon him. He caught a flash of light glinting off dull metal, and even as he dodged aside, he understood the fear that he had seen in Snow's eyes- Sloane had changed the stakes and drawn a knife. In the second that he made the realization, he felt the cold shock of pain piercing his shoulder that let him know he had not dodged fast or far enough to avoid the blade. The shooting pain came a second later, lancing through his body like a strike of lightning. Eric clutched at the wound reflexively before forcing himself to focus. His hand came away red with blood, which did not bode well.

Sloane might not have been the most skilled in hand to hand combat, but someone had taught him to wield a blade. More likely than not, he had served as a foot soldier in the wars. If that was the case, the fact that he had returned alive bespoke his skill. Normally, Eric would still have had the advantage, but injured, with his left arm growing more useless by the second, Sloane obviously had the upper hand. The predatory grin that split the Sloane's face showed the big man knew it as well.

Thinking quickly despite the fog of pain, Eric reached surreptitiously for one of his own knives and pulled it free of its sheath, holding himself on his knee to try and make himself appear more incapacitated than he was, biding his time and letting Sloane draw closer. When he was less than a pace away, Eric sprang up into him, taking him by surprise and knocking the knife out of his grasp. It skittered across the floorboards, safely out of reach. Sloane cursed and swung his fist again, aiming for the side that Eric could not block effectively. The blow glanced across his jaw, causing him to stumble and wince. He stayed upright, however, and wheeled to face his attacker. He blocked the next blow with his good arm and spun, laying his blade along Sloane's throat.

"We end this. Now." He growled, and after a long moment, Sloane gave a grudging, almost imperceptible nod. Eric was about to lower the knife and step back when a shaky voice called out,

"Back away, and nobody gets hurt." Eric cast his eyes around, looking for where the call had come from. When he located the speaker, his heart sank. The other of Sloane's friends stood with his arm wrapped tightly around Snow, pinning her arms to her sides. The knife in his other hand, which looked to be the blade he had forced away from Sloane, was laid across the pale column of Snow's throat, its blade depressing her pale skin. Her chin was tilted up in an effort to avoid the sting of the blade, and she remained otherwise utterly still. It did little good, however. The man's hand was trembling slightly, and Eric could see the blade biting deeper, slicing open her skin and causing bright red blood to well against the silver knife blade and trickle down her slender neck.

It set his own blood boiling. He could afford to be cautious no longer. His Queen was in imminent danger, and he was wounded and already less able to defend her than he should have been. He had been derelict in his duty, had left her alone to drown his own sorrows, and now she was in danger, at risk of being killed by some run-of-the-mill thug who had no idea the prize he had pinned in his arms.

He forced own pain and muddled head away and swung his fist at Sloane's temple, clocking him solidly with the added weight of the knife hilt. The big man's eyes rolled back and he slid to the floor. Eric honestly didn't care if the blow had rendered him unconscious or dead. He focused instead on the man restraining Snow. This one had probably never been a soldier- his trembling hand aside, he left too much of his body exposed beyond his human shield to have been trained in this. Hardly pausing, Eric balanced the knife in his fingers, sighted, and flung it at Snow's captor, praying that he would not miss. The sharp, sudden movement sent a searing pain through his injured arm, and for a second his vision clouded black. As it cleared again, he saw that his aim had been true, and that his knife had buried itself just below the man's collar bone. He lay gasping on the floor, clutching feebly at it, and Snow was free of him. In typical fashion, she then dropped to her knees beside him, pulling the blade from his body and pressing the handkerchief he'd been wearing around his wrist to the wound to staunch the bleeding. The wound bled, but not profusely. Eric's knife had missed the major arteries, and he would probably live, though he was unlikely to enjoy the next several days. Eric had difficulty mustering any pity for him though.

At that moment, Kane came bursting through the circle of bystanders, calling out in a commanding tone for the fighting to come to a halt.

"You," he said brusquely, seizing Eric by his uninjured shoulder, "and you." He gestured to Snow, "Out. Let's go." Snow cast one troubled look back at the men on the floor as she complied. Kane propelled them through the crowd and toward the back of the tavern, shouldering open the wooden door at the end of the bar and forcing them out into the chill of the night. He slammed the door behind them. As soon as it closed, his fierce scowl dropped.

"I'm sorry for that," He told them, releasing his grip in Eric's shirt, "And sorrier still for what I'm about to tell you." He shook his head. "You can't stay here. With the hysteria that'll be brewing in there, it won't be safe, for one. Sloane and his gang aren't well liked in this town, but they're not without their allies- and some of those allies are part of the town guard. It's a fair bet that somebody's already gone running for them." He paused. "For another thing, you're injured, and you'll be needing to have that looked at." He gestured to Eric's arm, which was already soaked red with blood.

"I'll be fine." Eric protested reflexively, although he privately acknowledged that something felt off. He was too woozy and his arm was too numb for the amount of blood that he had lost, even when factoring in the amount of ale and spirits he had consumed. Kane just quirked an eyebrow.

"Sloane was never a kind man, but he came back from the wars far more twisted than when he left. At least so I'm told." Kane offered. "I only came here after the wars ended, of course, but he's often spoken of. He's been known to coat his hunting arrows with a substance that keeps the blood from coagulating and causes the animal to become weak and sick as he tracks it through the forest. He kills for sport and for pelts, and rarely for food. I heard it rumored that he uses the same substance on his hunting blades. If he does, and that was the blade he cut you with, you won't likely be conscious much longer."

"It's possible." Eric acknowledged, and Kane nodded. Snow looked at him, and the worry and fear that writ across her face twisted in his gut as painfully as the wound in his shoulder.

"Right, then." Kane agreed. "You can't go to the apothecary- he'll be called to see to the men you've left bloodied in my tavern, and if you try to see him too, you'll be taken in for questioning, like as not. Being as you're strangers here, that's not likely to go well for you. You need to find Maddie. She's an herb woman who lives on the outskirts of the village, and she'll likely be able to fix him up. She's wary, but tell her I sent you, and she won't turn you away. Barth is bringing your horses around, and he or I will bring your belongings by as soon as it's quieted down enough to slip away. Now here's what you need to do…"

Eric realized in sort of an academic way that Kane had ceased talking to him, and was addressing Snow almost exclusively. He felt like that should bother him in some capacity, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why that should be. He was tired, he realized, so tired that he was leaning against the wall for support. Maybe that was why he wasn't concerned. He was too tired to be per…perter…worried.

He blinked, and Bast appeared with their horses. He mounted his at Kane's urging, and not without some effort, forcing himself to remember why they needed to be riding horses at all when they had paid for nice, warm beds upstairs. He glanced down at his arm, and the blood there, and realization jolted through him. He was injured. They were seeking out the witch-woman. Herb woman. But, he thought muddily, he didn't need to see her because his arm didn't hurt- not badly, at least. It throbbed steadily, but the pain was numbed, muffled, almost, and he'd rather sleep than go riding in the dead of night.

He saw Snow mount up ahead of him, and gathered the reins in his nerveless fingers. It didn't matter what he would prefer. She was riding, and so he had to stay with her, had to protect her. He forced his eyes open and nudged the horse with his heels, setting off after her into the night.


	12. If I Die Before I Wake

The night became black as pitch as soon as they left the pool of wavering light cast by the brazier at the Inn's door. The path was unfamiliar, and Snow had only Kane's rushed and whispered instructions to guide them. She was unaccustomed to riding at night, and even less accustomed to leading in the dark. They were forced to go slowly, allowing the horses to pick their way over the ground, trusting that the animals had a better sense of where they were stepping than the humans did.

To make matters worse, Eric was barely staying seated upon his horse. He had started off swaying alarmingly in the saddle, but as the minutes crawled by, he continued to slump lower and lower, leaning against the horse's neck. Snow prayed that he wouldn't fall; if he did, they would be in trouble, because there was no way that she could heft his sturdy frame back onto the beast's back.

He continued to bleed, though she had bound a scarf as tightly around the wound as she could to stem the flow. Blood seeped through the cloth regardless, and whatever poison Sloane had used still coursed through his veins. Each beat of his heart sent blood out of his body even as it drew the poison deeper in. She felt her own heartbeat roaring in her ears as she peered through the trees, shoving aside the thoughts of just how much trouble they were in.

Kane had told her that on a good day, the Herb woman's cottage was perhaps a twenty minute ride from the Wayfinder. In the dark, on unfamiliar roads, with Eric's injuries, Snow estimated that it took at least thrice that long to reach the first turn off. She almost missed it too- the telltale gap in the trees that marked another path for them to take. The second turn off was just as difficult, but at least once she found that, she could be reasonably sure that help was in reach.

The cottage was similar enough to what Kane had described that she thought she had gotten them to the correct place. She dismounted and considered leaving Eric on his horse and knocking on the door to be certain, but now that the horses were stopped, he looked to be only seconds from falling. Snow hastened to his side, freeing his feet from the stirrups and untangling his fingers from where they were clenched tightly in the mare's mane. She helped him to dismount, and as soon as his feet were on solid ground he sagged against her, his legs no longer holding him upright. Snow struggled to the door of the cottage, staggering under the weight of Eric's limp body. She knocked desperately, praying that they had come to the correct place. A long moment passed, and Snow knocked again more emphatically. A moment later the heavy door swung open to reveal a slender yet statuesque woman with dark hair and skin the color of polished walnut that glowed in the candlelight spilling out from the cottage's interior.

"What do you want?" the woman asked, her voice lowly melodic and distinctly suspicious.

"We need help." Snow explained. "He's injured. Kane told us that you could help. You are Maddie, aren't you?" The woman pursed her lips.

"I am." She acknowledged finally. She looked them over critically, taking in everything with her calculated gaze. Finally, she relented. "Bring him inside." She opened the door wide.

It took the strength of both women to maneuver the unconscious Huntsman through the doorway. In the flickering light of the candles, he looked worse than Snow could have imagined. Even with the dimness of the light, the pallor of his face was evident, and a sheen of sweat dotted his brow despite the chill of the air. Snow bit her lip to keep tears of sorrow and fear at bay.

"Come," Maddie commanded. "We must get him to my workroom so I can examine him." She nodded toward an open doorway on the far side of the room. Eric made a small sound of pain and protest as Maddie hauled his injured arm over her shoulders and hoisted him up so they could carry him between them.

The workroom was narrow, filled with shelves and cabinets with bunches of dried herbs hanging from the walls and ceilings. The left side of the room was dominated by a long counter, while the right boasted a low cabinet of drawers. A straw mattress and a pillow were laid on the cabinet, so that it became a sort of makeshift bed. It was onto this piece of furniture that they hoisted Eric's limp form.

"What happened?" Maddie asked brusquely, now able to step back and begin assessing her patient's condition. He didn't look well. Blood soaked his shirt not just at the shoulder, but along the entire left side of his body and his shirtsleeve as well.

"He was stabbed, in a bar fight." Snow explained. "Perhaps an hour ago. He barely made it here. Kane thought that the man who cut him- Sloane- might have used some sort of poison on his blade."

"He was right," Maddie agreed, rolling back her sleeves. "This is no simply a reaction to a cut. There is certainly poison involved. We need to get his shirt off so that I can see the wound." Snow hurried to unbuckle the belt that Eric wore to hold his weapons and then to the laces that held his shirt closed. Maddie, however, took a more direct approach, using a small knife to rend the fabric at his shoulder with one clean slice. Having dealt with this, she began to examine the wound, leaving Snow to pull the shirt clear and drop it out of the way.

It was, she realized with a start, only the second time she had seen him unclothed like this. His skin was still the same pale gold that she had seen such a short time ago in the river, and it still stretched magnificently over his broad, muscled frame; but now there was an alarming splash of crimson across the golden skin. Blood covered his shoulder, his arm, and his ribs, and was even smeared across his rippled abdomen. For the first time, Snow could see the damage that Sloane had wrought. The flesh at Eric's shoulder gaped open from a gash that ran several inches. It was unnatural to see his skin parted so, and Snow found that she had involuntarily pressed the back of her hand to her mouth in horror. Maddie, however, seemed utterly unfazed. In fact, she was leaning close over the wound, gazing at it, sniffing it, and even wetting her fingers with some of the spilled blood to sniff it. She spoke abruptly.

"Over there, on the final shelf, third from the top there is wooden box carved with a pattern of vines. Bring it to me." Snow hurried to comply. She found the box precisely where Maddie had said it would be and hastened back to the table.

"Good." Maddie said. "Now light those candles. I will need light to see." She nodded, and Snow followed the jut of her chin to see the candle she spoke of, one of several placed around the room or mounted in sconces, all with polished metal discs behind them to reflect and multiply the light. Snow bent to her task, all the while keeping one eye on Maddie, who opened the box and drew out a delicate glass vial filled with cloudy fluid.

"Will that cure him?" Snow asked hopefully. Maddie shook her head distractedly as she measured out drops of the cloudy liquid into a tiny spoon.

"The poison running through his veins is powerful, and there is no antidote for it. I could do more if he had ingested it, but it's in his blood instead, and there's nothing I can do to draw it out. This is Amapola's milk. It's derived from the sap of a poisonous plant"

"Another poison? You're trying to kill him?" Snow realized that her voice was rising to the edge of hysteria, but she couldn't begin to care. "You can't do that. I won't allow it." She flew to stand beside the Huntsman's prone form. Maddie didn't so much as bat an eyelash.

"This poison has almost an entirely opposite effect of the one that Sloane has used. Where that poison slows the heart, this poison causes it to speed. Where Sloane's poison results in fever and delirium, this poison causes the body to chill. It's not a cure by any stretch of the imagination, but there is a sliver of a chance that if we offset the effects of the first poison and keep his heart from stopping, his body might be able to clear the poisons in its own in time. Now move aside so that I can treat your friend."

Snow watched mutely as the herb woman tipped the milky liquid between Eric's parted lips. Satisfied, the mahogany-skinned woman moved to the shelves, gathering jars and deftly plucking herbs from the drying bundles. Snow stepped closer to the makeshift bed, her expression pained. She attempted to ignore the crimson stain of blood and focus instead on his face, but even the strong line of his jaw was smeared with it. His breathing was shallow, and labored. Impulsively, Snow reached out and clenched her fingers around his slack hand.

"Don't leave me." She whispered, half in pleading and half in prayer. Eric's eyelids fluttered and cracked open.

"Never leave you." He vowed blurrily, even as his eyes drifted shut again and his head began to loll on the pillow. "Love you." The words came out as the barest hint of a whisper.

Her heart leapt joyously. It was not the first time he had confessed his affections, to be sure, but after all that had transpired in the past days, and pain of his repeated rejections of her, she could help but feel relief. Better yet, she thought, if he was well enough to talk, then surely his survival could not be in doubt. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, Eric's hands began to twitch. His head followed, and within seconds, his entire body was rippling with convulsions.

"Something's wrong!" she exclaimed frantically, and Maddie, who had been pounding a variety of herbs with a mortar and pestle dropped her instruments and nearly flew to Eric's side, pushing Snow out of the way.

She hissed under her breath in frustration. "The poison is stronger than I thought. He needs more of the Ampola's milk. Hold his jaw open so that I can administer it."

Nervously, Snow complied, setting her fingers on his jaw even as she weighed the risk. What Maddie was proposing seemed dangerous beyond belief; a third dose of poison might well kill him. Yet doing nothing… Eric was clearly dying now, before her eyes. They had to do something and so, praying that she was not singing his death warrant, Snow pried apart his clenched jaw so that Maddie could administer several more drops of milky toxin. The herb woman pressed on his throat, forcing the clenched muscles to swallow. Still, the convulsions wracked Eric's body. Snow felt tears welling and dashed them away with the back of her hand. Maddie gave her no time to dwell upon the direness of the situation.

"Keep that pillow under his head," She instructed evenly, "So that he does not suffer further injury. And try to hold his arm steady- the convulsions have already worsened the wound." Indeed, it did seem as though the blood was flowing more freely than even before. Snow did as she was bid. Maggie nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention back to her mortar and pestle.

"This is poultice, for the wound." The stately woman volunteered, almost sensing Snow's need to focus upon anything other than the sight of the man she loved perishing in her arms while the blood from his wounds stained her fingers. "It will draw the poison out and eventually allow me to stitch the wound closed." She continued to talk, telling Snow about the plants she was using and their healing properties. The words washed over her, nearly meaningless, yet they allowed her to hold to her tenacity and resolve despite the night's horrific events.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the convulsions diminished in strength, until they disappeared altogether. Once they were gone, Eric's breath was so shallow that his chest hardly rose and fell. Were it not for the fact that his wound still bled, Snow might easily have believed him to be dead. She was so absorbed in her scrutiny of the Huntsman that she did not notice Maddie's approach, and started when the other woman laid an approving hand upon her shoulder.

"You've done well." The other woman reassured her, coaxing her back from the bedside and handing her a damp cloth to wipe the carmine stickiness of the drying blood from her skin. With a second cloth, Maddie began to wash the blood from the gash on Eric's shoulder. "There's oil from the Tea-Tree in the water, and leaves from the tree in the poultice I will apply," Maddie explained in the same soothing voice. They will keep infection from setting in, and allow the wound to heal cleanly."

"Does that mean that he will live?" Snow asked, seizing at the hope. Maddie's look held sympathy, but little promise.

"His fever will continue to rise, even with every treatment I can give. It is unlikely that he will make it through the night." She confessed. "And if he does, it's near equally unlikely that he will live through the next day. If he manages that, his chances begin to increase, but… wounded and poisoned as he is, those chances are slim at best. He must be very strong for there to be even a hope."

"He is." Snow promised. Maddie granted her a sad smile.

"I don't doubt it. But only time will tell."

Snow did not leave Eric's side during the night. She dragged the spindly chair over to the side of his sickbed and curled herself into it and watched him, watched for each miniscule rise of his chest that signified he still drew breath. Maddie came in every hour or so to check upon her patient, replacing the drawing poultice and positioning practiced fingers along his neck to count the beats of his heart.

She offered Snow a pallet to sleep on before the fire, but Snow refused, unable to consider the idea of leaving her Huntsman's side. Hours passed, and his fever set in, beading his brow with sweat even as his body was wracked with chills. She wiped his brow with a cool cloth and spoke to him in a soft voice, babbling nonsense in the hopes that he might simply recognize her voice and that he might cling to it ask he clung to life throughout the dark night.

Dawn lightened the sky, and still she kept her vigil though her voice had become hoarse and her eyes gritty. Maddie appeared in the doorway again, moving to change the dressing on his shoulder once more. She inspected it closely, nodding approvingly as she washed it clean.

"The wound can be stitched now." She pronounced, crossing the room to pull a flat wooden box from a shelf. Inside, Snow caught a glimpse of sharp knives and instruments whose purpose she did not know and feared to ask, but Maddie only removed a leather pouch, which she unfolded to reveal thin silk thread and a set of wickedly curved needle. "Pull the blanket down so that I may have room to work," Maddie instructed, and Snow hastened to comply. She watched in horrified fascination while the herb woman treated both the needle and silk with her tea tree solution, then set about stitching the gash, from which a trickle of blood had again begun to flow. It made her shoulders tense to see the way that the string pulled at the flesh, drawing it together with under Maddie's capable hands. Eventually, she simply had to glance away.

In the daylight, she could see the evidence of older wounds upon Eric's body. A thin scar traced across the left side of his ribs, and where she stood by his right hip, she could see two flat scars that suggested whatever wounds he had received had been closed with the red-hot flat of a blade, most likely on a battlefield during the wars. There were other places, along his forearm and below his collarbone, where light lines in his skin spoke of wounds he had sustained of a less severe nature, faded and half forgotten. There was even a place on his arm, just below his current injury, that had left a roundish scar, almost certainly a result of an arrow piercing his flesh.

The scars marred the artistic perfection of his form to some degree, but Snow was not perturbed by the sight. To her, they told the story of a life lived in the real and often brutal world beyond the stone walls of castle or keep. She wanted to know the particulars of each story; and it terrified her to think that she might never know. That for all she had talked at him throughout the night, she might never talk _with_ him again. She returned her gaze to Maddie's stitching, resolutely fighting back the tears that constantly threatened to fall.

Many minutes later, swaying on her feet, Snow finally allowed herself to be led to the pallet before the fire. Though the idea of sleeping was loathsome, she could not pretend that she was not exhausted, and no matter how much she wished to remain by Eric's side, she welcomed the softness of the mattress and pillow beneath her aching limbs. She was drifting off even as she drew the blanket over her, the last thought on her mind a prayer that when she woke, Eric would wake as well.


	13. There Is Now

Waking was a struggle akin to extricating oneself from a bog; every time he thought he had mustered the will to open his eyes, he found instead that he would sink back into unconsciousness. When he finally wrenched his eyelids apart, he was immediately struck by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings.

He lay on a narrow bed beside a small window. The curtain were drawn so he could not see outside, but the way the light filtered through them made him think it was past midday. The white blankets drawn over him were heavy soft wool, unlike the coarse brown blankets that comprised his bedroll. It was a better bed than he had slept in since leaving the castle, and for that matter, better than he had known throughout most of his life.

He struggled to piece together what had happened. He remembered the tavern and the argument with Snow, then heading to the taproom to drown his rage in drink, and inserting himself into the fight with the brute who threatened her, but after that, everything became oddly blurred. As he floated fitfully into full consciousness, he noticed that his left shoulder felt stiff and throbbed with a dull pain. The pain grew sharper as he tried to move it, and the memory of the fight, Sloane, and blade in his shoulder came flooding back. Gingerly, he used his right arm to pull back the cover and discovered two things. The first was that his shoulder had been tended to, and was now neatly poulticed and bandaged with strips of clean white linen; the second was that his shirt and indeed, much of his clothing in general, was conspicuously missing.

He cast his eyes around the room. It was narrow, and sparsely furnished, though the small space made it appear cramped nonetheless. A worn wooden worktable took up most of the wall opposite the bed, and the shelves above it were crammed with glass vials, wooden boxes, clay jars, and cloth-wrapped bundles. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, giving the air a subtly pleasant scent. The only other furniture was a small wooden stand beside the bed, and a single spindly chair near the door. The door itself was partially open, and through it he could glimpse another room and the corner of a fieldstone fireplace with flames burning low in the grate.

He heard footsteps, and the door opened creaked open further to reveal Snow. It took him a second to reconcile the image of her, as she was dressed quite simply in her shift and a borrowed skirt of dark brown cloth. Her hair was tied back in a braid, though wisps and tendrils of hair had begun to escape its confinement. She looked weary, and was carrying a bundle of herbs in her arms, but her eyes lit up when she saw him, chasing the exhaustion away.

"You're awake!" she exclaimed, hurrying to deposit the basin on the counter. He nodded, and found that his head felt oddly heavy. "I was so worried," she breathed.

"How long was I asleep?" He made a move to sit up, but she pressed him back lightly with the flat of her hand. She smelled of lavendar and chamomile.

"It's been four days since we left the Wayfinder." She told him. "Do you… recall what happened?"

Eric nodded slowly.

"I think so. There was a fight. At the Inn. I was injured."

"You were stabbed." She clarified. "Do you remember afterwards, outside the Inn, with Kane? When he told us that Sloane poisons his weapons? And about the herb woman who we should go to for help?"

"Only vaguely," he admitted after a moment's attempt at recollection. "I suppose that's where we are now, then?" He cast his eyes around at the dried herbs again, the pieces of information beginning to click together like a puzzle. Snow nodded.

"It took us such a long time to get here in the dark, and by the time we arrived you were practically falling from the saddle. Maddie treated you, but… she was doubtful that you'd live.

"It was that bad, then?" he said, forcing amusement into his tone, but his humor died when he saw the way she looked at him, the worry in her eyes edged with fear.

"It was worse."

"Aye, well, I'm too stubborn to die," he promised her gently.

"I'm thankful for that," she told him, and he felt her fingers slide into his with a gentle squeeze. "I could not bear to lose you."

"It would take more than a lout with a rusty knife to make me leave your side," He vowed. She shook her head.

"I meant before that too. Our argument. The things that I said… I wish I could take them back. I thought so many times as you were lying here that I would recant everything I'd said that night if you would just open your eyes and be alright." Her eyes glittered with unshed tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand.

"There's no need for tears, then," he protested somewhat awkwardly, but his pronouncement had little effect.

"You almost _died_," she whispered, her anguish now more apparent. "For days you've ben lingering at Death's door, and I've been left with the thought that the last words we'd had between us were spoken in anger. That you might never wake and I might never get to tell you how sorry I am for what I said."

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters." he assured her. "You're safe, and unharmed, and that's all that's important,". Something about her shifted subtly at this pronouncement, and she withdrew her hand from his.

"Do you truly believe that? Can you really lie there and say that your life has such little value?" she demanded incredulously. "I nearly lost you. Do you have any idea what that would _do_ to me?"

"Do you have any idea what it would do to _me_ if something happened to _you_? What would happen to the Kingdom?" he shot back, his eyes fever-bright. His head had begun to pound, and he found himself exhausted. His patience was thin as a gnat's wing. "I would _gladly_ give my life for yours. It's your duty to accept that truth." She stared back at him, fuming.

"I see. You would give me your life, but just not your heart." She said flatly. "Despite the fact that I would hand you mine without hesitation."

"I have never asked that of you, Milady. I would have no right." He said carefully. She shook her head.

"You never needed to ask." She said, her voice sad and faraway. She turned from him then, lips pressed tightly together, and busied herself sorting the herbs that she had brought.

"I mended your shirt," she told him stiffly after a moment, and there was a distinct edge to her voice. "While I was sitting here beside you, tending to your ills and willing that you might live. I managed to get the blood out of it too. It's over there, if you want it." She brushed her hands on her skirt and gestured to the back wall. "I'll find Maddie to check on you now." And with that, she slipped out of the room, hesitating at the doorway, but never looking back.

The door opened a moment later, and he hoped that it was Snow, but the tall, physically impressive women that appeared was every bit Snow's opposite in appearance. This, he surmised, must be Maddie.

He found as they talked that despite her sometimes tough exterior, he rather liked the herb woman. He was not one to be poked and prodded and coddled, and she seemed to know it, telling him frankly that he could attempt to get out of bed the following morning, and not a moment before- and that if he disobeyed her, she would drug him and put him back to bed. She seemed satisfied with the progress of the healing in his shoulder, and the fact that his fever was nearly gone.

She allowed him to struggle into a sitting position of his own accord, deftly positioning the pillows so that he was propped against them, and forced a mug of fever tea into his hands, telling him to drink. After that, she allowed him a bit of broth and a heal of plain bread to appease the rumblings of his stomach, with the promise that she would bring him dinner when it was made.

She even sensed his curiosity and cleverly worked into their conversation how dedicated Snow had been to caring for him while he lay insensate, sitting by his bedside, feeding him broths and teas drop by drop so he did not choke, and even learning and gathering the herbs and plants that Maddie required to treat him. He was not inclined to speak of it, but he was deeply humbled by the idea of her caring for him herself. It put him to thinking of the time that he had injured his leg during a trip to the forest and had limped home to Sara, who had cared from him with such tenderness that he had fallen in love with her all over again. It never ceased to amaze him how two women, so very different from one another, could hold such sway on his heart. Not for the first time, he wished that he were able to act upon the feelings he had for Snow, that any sort for future might exist for them. It made his head hurt to think on the impossibility, and begging fatigue, he allowed himself to slip back into the oblivion of sleep.

He dreamed of her, hair loose about her face, in a mountain meadow. She was picking flowers from the field and laughing as the wind tossed her hair into her eyes. There were young children there- a blonde boy and a darker-haired girl, both with hair like silk and eyes the color of the changing sea who played beside her, their hands clasped together as they spun around and collapsed in a giggling heap. There was a cottage behind them, made entirely of stone, with a chimney that sent a stream of smoke into the air and a positively giddy red setter who came bounding through the door to join in the revelry, barking and sniffing enthusiastically at the children who reached to tangle their hands in his silky coat. The scene was pastoral, and perfect, and left a feeling of rightness in his heart. He woke later with the image graven into his mind and an overwhelming sense of sorrow that it had not been real.

Snow did not return to the work room the rest of the day. Instead, she distracted herself with the tasks Maddie had taught her to keep her hands busy and her heart from despair in the days while the Hunstman lay fighting for life in the other room. She swept the floors of the cottage, and the hearth as well, and even did the wash, scrubbing the sheets and bandages clean first in cold water and then in boiling hot water before hanging them to dry. She helped Maddie to cook a light stew, but refused to take the bowl in to Eric. At that, Maddie, who had carefully ignored the change in Snow's attentions, had raised her eyebrows and asked mildly, "Lover's spat?"

"We're not lovers." Snow said in a voice as dark as her own hair, thunking the ladle into the pot with such force that stew threatened to slosh over the sides.

"Shows what you know," Maddie murmured just loud enough for her to hear as she headed toward the work room door.

Snow retired early, and tossed and turned fitfully throughout the night, her mind churning with thoughts and affording her little rest. She was angry, to be sure. Angry at him for his stubbornness, and angry at herself for holding out such hope even when she knew it to be foolish.

The thing was though, that she knew he loved her, and loved her as more than a subject adores his queen- he had shown her, in their most unguarded moments, that he loved her- coveted her- as a man loves a woman.

If only she could convince him that such a thing was acceptable. But it was foolish, she knew. The court would not readily accept him a suitor, and to act as freely as she desired would cause problems in the future. She had always read in in her little-girl stories that when two people loved one another, they confessed it, and married each other, and lived happily ever after. Yet marriage was far from a realistic hope for them. That much she was forced to concede. She was the Queen, but she had little power to decide who she would wed. That decision would be made by her council, and she would be expected to accept the decision with dignity and grace. A future between her and the Huntsman was, indeed, impossible; though that fact did nothing to ease the anguish in her heart.

Surely, her mind teased her, there _must_ be some other solution than to pretend that there was nothing between them but monarchical devotion. The pretense was as false as any lie, and was tearing them both apart.

It was shocking to realize what an impact four days of unconsciousness had wreaked upon his body. Eric felt slow, clumsy, and undeniably weak in the morning when he dragged himself out of the bed. His muscles protested against the sudden effort, but he ignored them and took a few steps, finding his balance even as he kept his injured arm hugged tight to his side. It took a moment, but he was soon pacing back and forth across the room without much difficulty, though the exertion took a toll. When Maddie entered the room, she seemed both pleased and perturbed to see him standing on his own feet.

"Sit." She directed, pointing him to the chair and trying to look severe. He grinned and obliged, allowing her to remove the dressing and check his stitches, wincing occasionally as she pressed her fingers to his skin and hummed a sound of approval. "It's healing well." She declared. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a wobbly kitten." He admitted grudgingly. "But that will pass."

"You speak from experience." Maddie observed, her dark eyes flashing to his other scars.

"It's not my first knife fight, no." he said wryly. "I'll be fine. Though I wouldn't mind the chance to bathe."

"I'll haggle with you." Maddie offered. "I'll haul and heat enough water for a bath if you promise to rest for at least an hour afterward.

"Sold." He agreed, offering his good hand out to shake. It was more than a fair deal- he could already feel the weariness tugging at him dragging him into exhaustion. It was too good a deal, really. He told Maddie as much, and she broke into a rare grin.

"Having you bathe, Hunstman, is an act for the public good, and I come out ahead. You need a wash, but I am not fond of giving sponge baths- not even for fine specimens of masculinity such as yourself."

"You wound me, Maddie." He told her with mock seriousness. She snorted with amusement.

"It's a good thing I can stitch you up again then isn't it?" she queried, ducking through doorway with a final flash of her grin.

He spent the time that it took to bring the water stretching and forcing his muscles into wakefulness. The heat of the water then was welcome, and by the time he was truly clean, he felt nearly his old self again. His shoulder was the exception- it was a painful struggle to drag his shirt over the wounded arm, but he managed well enough, gritting his teeth against the pain. Once he was clothed, he fastened the length of cloth that Maddie had left into a sling for his arm, then settled back into his bed and closed his eyes for a much needed rest. An hour nap turned into two hours, and then three, but he awoke feeling refreshed and almost restless.

The wooziness that had plagued him earlier was gone, and though he knew better than to do anything too strenuous, he craved activity. He found Snow in the main room of the cottage, feeding split logs into the fire. The surprise of seeing him showed in her eyes, though her expression was otherwise perfectly arranged. She had her Queenly face on, and few would have noted the flash of uncertainty that greeted him. There was great potential for the moment to stretch out into stilted discomfort, which he desired to avoid. To that end, he spoke quickly, disrupting the silence.

"I was about to go for a walk." He offered. "Would you care to join me?" For a second, he thought she meant to decline; she in fact turned her head as though to refuse, but she hesitated, then nodded instead.

"Of course." She agreed courteously, dusting her hands on her skirt and turning toward the door.

Outside, the sky was overcast, and the air had taken on a chill. Bathing in a woodland pool would have little appeal on a day like today. Still, to be outdoors and feel the air in his lungs was a welcome change. He appreciated the coziness of a well built home, and even the grandeur of the royal palace, but he had never been one to suffer being cooped up well. It made him feel more grounded and more himself to be out in nature, hearing the susurration of the wind whispering in the trees and the sound of distant bird calls.

There was a clearing around the cottage, which allowed for light even on a cloudy day, and forest around them was new- growth of less than forty years, he judged absently. It made sense, of much of the timber in this part of the kingdom had been felled to build ships for the Royal Navy during King Rowland's War.

A think blanket of fallen leaves covered the ground, rustling as they walked. For long moments, it was the only sound between them. Several times, Eric opened his mouth to speak and shut it again, unable to find the right words to say. Finally, he settled on an expression of gratitude.

"Thank you," he said. "For all that you did to care for me. Maddie has told me how close a thing it truly was."

"There is no need for thanks," Snow replied honestly. "I would gladly do it all again and more if it meant that your life would be saved. My actions were purely selfish. I do not know how I would live in this world without you."

"I am grateful nonetheless." He told her gravely. "It is no small thing for a Queen to act a nursemaid, a task so unquestionably below your station. I am much indebted to you."

"It is never below a Queen to care for her subjects." Snow commented sharply. They walked in silence then for a moment, letting the sound of the leaves crunching beneath their feet fill the void. He did not know what he could say, or what he could do that would put them on firmer ground. He wished he knew what words she needed to hear Without warning, Snow stepped out in front of him and turned, bringing them both to a halt.

"It will always be between us, won't it?" She demanded. "The fact of my monarchy. Even when we stand alone together in a room, it will always be the third presence, won't it?"

"I don't see how it can be otherwise," he admitted after a second's pause, choosing not to pretend that he did not take her meaning. And that was the crux of it. Though it was not something spoken of explicitly, they had reached a point where duty and honor stood in the way of happiness. He felt that he no longer knew his own mind, so torn was he between the conflicting forces of his heart and his honor. "It is not a thing that we can just ignore. It will always loom before us, the fact that you are the Queen, and I am your loyal and humble servant, even raised from the rank of Peasant to that of Lord. Our feelings do not enter into it. There will never be a time when we are free to act without the scrutiny of the Court and the Kingdom, when we are able to explore what mere devotion might have a chance to become between us."

"There is now." She offered matter-of-factly. "There is no Court or Council to scrutinize us on this journey."

The world seemed to halt in the space of a breath. He searched her green eyes, earnest and eager, wide with the audacity of what she proposed. His heart leapt, but forced himself to project an air of calm.

"Could you do that?" he pressed her. "Could you be content with stolen moments on the road that could never lead to any future, that could not continue once we returned to the Castle? Are you truly able to take that risk, only to return to what we have been in a few short days or weeks?"

She met his gaze levelly.

"Do you recall what you said to me the night you were stabbed, just before you slipped into unconsciousness?" He shook his head warily. "You told me that you would never leave me. And that you loved me. Did you mean it then?"

"Heaven help me, I did." He confessed with resignation. "Though I do not recall uttering the words, I cannot deny the truth of them." Snow nodded.

"Then hear this. I would rather know love for even so brief a time as we might have than live without it and always wonder what it would have been to have had it. I would steal whatever moments I can with you, and treasure them, because I cannot bear the thought of never knowing."

He did not know if he could bear the thought of knowing and then losing her again, but he did not voice this. He was weary of refusing, tired of denying the truth of his heart. He was willing, just this once, to be selfish. And so, as the moment stretched between them, he did not caution her further. And when she stepped toward him, her intent clear in her expression, he did not halt her or protest.

Instead, he bent toward her so she could press her lips to his. This was not a fleeting kiss, nor a chaste, accidental meeting of lips. This was a full commitment. There was controlled desperation between them, and passion which clouded judgment and built as the embrace lasted. He could feel the warmth of it suffuse his limbs. Her hand was on his chest, burning him with the awareness of where her fingers twisted in the cloth of his shirt, and his good arm was wound round her waist, drawing her toward him, pressing their bodies together.

He felt as though he were drowning- drowning in _her_, but he doubted that a drowning man had ever welcomed his fate as he welcomed this. For the first time, he truly let himself be free to taste her and savor her. He was not fighting his inner voice of reason, or making the most of a moment that was sure to end the second he got his wits about him. When their lips parted and came together again, there was no thought that they must stop before someone saw them or before they carried it too far. There was only the extraordinary bliss of kissing her.

Desperation gave way to exploration, and the discovery that if he kissed her slowly, languidly, drawing the moment out, she melted against him, and that if he pressed her harder again, she responded with increased urgency that sent a thrill through his veins.

It was perfection to forget, just for a moment, that this was forbidden, that it could never be allowed to last. He could pretend that this was simple, just standing here in the woods while the tree sparrows scolded overhead, kissing the girl he had given his heart to entirely, feeling the solidness of her body against his, the realness of her that proved this was not another dream.

He brought his hand up to trace the silky softness of her cheek and tangle in the raven tresses of her hair. He felt her breath catch and his lips stretched into a grin, even as he bent to kiss her again. He never wanted to stop kissing her, which was why, when she wound her arm around his neck, he ignored the painful tug on his shoulder and poured himself deeper into the embrace.

He was not the only one who wished the moment would not end. Every time they pulled themselves back from one another they continued to seek contact; resting their foreheads together and meeting each other eyes, which always seemed to lead to another kiss, and another after that.

"I love you." She whispered him, and he, recklessly emboldened, responded with the same. He cursed the sling that held his injured arm, because it prevented him from cupping her delicate face in his hands and kissing her so thoroughly that she could not doubt the truth of his adoration. He had to settle for showing her with the soft pressure of his lips and the slow sweep of his tongue that he would do anything for her, give anything for her. All but one thing. It sobered him to realize that they must speak of it, and he drew the moment out to avoid the discussion, as intoxicated by her kisses as he had once been with wine.

"There is a limit to this." He told her when had managed to force himself to regain a modicum of reason, though not so much that he was able to make himself step from their embrace. "There must be." He bowed his head, resting it against hers, breathing the same air she breathed.

"I know," she conceded, letting her eyes drift shut as though to shut out the reality that threatened to creep back in. "I know what line it is you will not cross."

"Understand that I do not refuse for lack of desire," He breathed. "The barest hint of your touch sets my blood afire. You undo me utterly." He brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear, noting how his fingers shook with the gesture. "But there are things which cannot be, no matter how much we might wish for them. I will not concede to bringing shame upon you in the eyes of your Court."

"I know better now than to ask it of you." She vowed. "I hope, though, that you will not hold yourself back from what is between us." She brought her hand up to curl around his wrist. The softness of her skin was like a brand upon his own.

"Shamed though I am to admit it, Milady, I do not think myself capable of refusing you. I have always been yours to command. It is only doubly true now."

Her lips spread in a slow smile, and a hit of mischief sparked in her eye.

"Good." She murmured, tugging him forward by the lacing of his shirt. "Then I command you to kiss me."

"And I find myself utterly incapable of refusing." He replied, even as he bent to capture her lips once more, marveling at the audacity of the action. It was an impossible thing, a commoner loving a Queen, and yet the perfection of this moment was such that he could not question it, nor would he look ahead to the future, and its limit upon their happiness. For now, for as long as possible, they would live the borrowed life they had found. Heaven help them when their time expired, but that was not a thought that he was willing to entertain today. Today, it was enough to be in love, however impossible it seemed.


End file.
